it'- 


w 




f f 

• -if 

‘ r.f 

■. f ( 

',r f 

‘f.r 

i.ii( 

I a • 

• i 

I -»* 9 

..■ i -I « 

:.f ; A 

• % < •« 

hyw 

K,’* r 

r *. t 
/< « > 

* 

•,r'. ’ 


r / 

f'.# 

*• c 

Y ^ * 

0* 
» • « 
V*'. 

» • I 


• r « ■ 

•Y'.. 

^ > 1 

I j* $ 

■>* . i 

• « .< I 

« . i .1 

^ 4 % •* 

/(* Y 
.* >• • 
1 >r :. 

/ ^ ♦ i 

:l! 

»» *r 


k 

« *• i 4 1 

> I >r A 

't . « ,. « 
%■ >■» 

• •. » • .* 

?' i*'.r 

(1 r' / 

« . i4> 

( .1 J" I 

,f I t . 

;r>f: 

^ »' '. I 

.' • J % ' 

I t M* 

• > • « f 

t . * ^• 
vt i * 

( i I ^ i 

*■ i . ' Y 

/ ^ r 

.• » *1 / 
» r « 

/-./'ll’ 

r-f‘. . 

*1 < ; ■ » / 

» * < • % 

|1 * ^ * 


' r * * 1 

« 4 j 4 4 

I .4 I ,•■ 'k 

;ki< 

r . • • I 


I • A » i * * 

't. 


» 4 1 ' - 

u t ., *. 

I j # .1 * 


.'C‘’S 

•* 

/» c ► ». 

U'-ft 

i . » i* 

op 

I -I r 1 

a'?£ 

# 1 pf 


• 'r '’"’/ 

» y • . r •: # • < • k 4 « < 

f ». ••VC"*. ^ 4 **‘ •* 

• "k « V " 1 * ». /* .* ' 

I 'j t j* r • 1 - • • •' ‘ 

*^•1/1 5<. !**>»?■' ' 


W. 

>>,n 

ifii 

HH 

* i 

* *-r i 


« > / H 9 .*9 I ' « • » r ’ 

'jdifWh?: 


H 


t VC » f % f « • >< 

A ^ » * * >■ 

y «..£••>•.< . f • 

V , '. 


' / ‘ 

i « « • * 

f •• » ‘ 

V i; • 


.. I i > < « ' < 

C * A • 

» 4 r < • > 

* • » H J 

' ' t . k ♦ ♦ 

. .1 . } ' f 

- * ^ t •■ 4 .* 

t 

« « -M ri ? 


' * • * « I f J r 

t ^ <1 « < « .1 / 


• f t » « • ;a 4 4’ 

» • I ‘ « I » I • I 'l l ^ ( 


V/" r, ; r H 

Ai r .ii * 

I > * % j ‘ ^ ^ ' 

* I \ * * *' *-. i { ' L 

' • . . 4 4" 4 ' 

<* ' . • • t ^ t 

» I -i ( * 1 * » • 

* . « ■» 1 ■• I > ^ 

‘OU 

It « « • ' 

t 1 4 ''. ♦ 

»' I Si' * 

I 

■* ' C 

k\u* 

/ t V 














O' 





V' 




O > 


aV^ -o, .>* 0^ ^ 

• •• ' ® <6 fV O « o 




t * o 


"• ^ d 

* \0 vv * 

V ^ fiA «» 

*■»'•'• '' o » o ' 

. V V^ ' 

'* S> ♦ 








* ^ -i^ ' 


% - 

* ^ • 
<. ‘'o^^* ,d^ 

< V ^ I / • ^ -<d^ qV j. o »« o ^ ^Q 

"o v^ 'tu 0^ o' 

* <L^ o o 

OnO^ 9^ *' • / 1 • -^0^ 






p^. 


3r'^, 


o ♦ A 







^ * S ^ ^ <V -^O ♦ A 

‘ ’O S^ .CvT^-r 

'»’ 4 \ ♦ Q^rti/y^ VST 

r 




VVJ ^ 

, '< 4 , ‘ ' 

_ t f • 'Q^ /^ » o f* a ' 

'X '* ' 



^ 

yS^V ® 
o 

* V '’ 



-o 





r 



i 



• “ 


t 

% 

‘ N, 

FOR THE HONOR OF A CHILD 






FOR THE HONOR 

OF A CHILD 


BY 

BEULAH DOWNEY HANKS 



MDCCCXCIX 

CONTINENTAL PUBLISHING CO. 
25 Park Place, New York 


'nX 



3406^ 


Copyright, 1898, 

BY 

CONTINENTAL PUBLISHING CO. 

TWO COPIES REC'IVEO. 




26 1899 


cf Co^f}! 




For the Honor of a Child. 




TO 

FRIENDS AND MEMORIES 

OF OTHER YEARS 
THIS STORY 
IS FONDLY DEDICATED. 


I 


FRAGMENTS OF A LOVE STORY 


“ Wealth and dominion fade into the mass 

Of the great sea of human right and wrongs 
When once from our possession they must pass^ 
But love^ though misdirected^ is among 
The things which are immortal^ and surpass 
All that frail stujf which will be or which was.** 

—Shelley. 




• f 


« 




$ 


\ , 






I , ' 

* I ^ » 

, I 

' ' ' ' , ■ 

, # 

, •' " ' ' 

I . \ 


I , 

* J • 

' 4 

I 

I : ^ 


I 

i 


t 





» 


I 




\ 




I 


i 


r i 


t ' 


l) 




» 






f. 




4 




; 



,»'*i 


i' 

.}■ 


i;.'' '; : 



CONTENTS, 


FRAGMENT 1. 

Idle Talk 

FRAGMENT II. 

She Married A Spaniard 

FRAGMENT III. 

Don Santiago Laurence Lamadrid 

FRAGMENT IV. 

Entertaining Angels . 

FRAGMENT V. 

The Gate of Tears .... 

FRAGMENT VI. 

Love Is a Keen Regret 

FRAGMENT VII. 

For a Consideration 

FRAGMENT VIII. 
A Reconnoissance .... 


PAGE 


rt 


• 30 


. 4,5 


• 79 


. 96 


. 122 


I4X 


• 155 


9 


lO 


Contents 


FRAGMENT IX. 

The Conscience of a Conscienceless Man . 

FRAGMENT X. 

Love is Love Forevermore .... 

FRAGMENT XI. 

The Blossom falls From the Stem 


PAGE 

. 172 


. IQX 


. 2C7 


FRAGMENT L 


IDLE TALK. 

She was a young girl — ^perhaps twenty — 
dressed in a white muslin gown, a large hat 
shading her blue eyes. She had a pale, im- 
pressive face, a mass of hair like the sun- 
shine, a round, full throat, and a curve to 
her singularly red lips that was deliciously 
fascinating. 

He was well built, good-looking, several 
years older, with clear-cut features, a 
smooth face, dark-brown hair, a broad 
white forehead, a good mouth, and mag- 
netic eyes. He wore a neglige shirt, with 
a white tie knotted round his neck ; his coat 
was dark blue. 

Her name was Margaret Laurence. 
Fatherless and motherless, she lived with a 
distant relative. 

Her mother died when she was a little 


12 


For the Honor 


thing; she had, in fact, but the slightest 
recollection of her. Upon her father, how- 
ever, she lavished her childish affections. 
He had been a doctor. Never at any time 
had they been what might be called rich, 
but he managed to derive a comfortable 
living from his practice. 

Doctor Laurence’s delight knew no 
bounds when Margaret early manifested a 
genius for music. His wife, too, had been 
similarly gifted, and to Margaret fell her 
incomparable gift. So her father spared 
neither time nor money in giving her a 
musical education, and to the day of his 
death he treasured a hope of taking her to 
Germany, where she might pursue to better 
advantage her musical studies. But when 
Margaret was seventeen he died suddenly 
of heart-failure, leaving her penniless. 
Thrown thus upon her own resources, and 
standing alone in the world, she had sup- 
ported herself by giving music lessons. 

It was an independent and a happy life, 
though not an easy one by any manner of 
means; for Margaret lacked the dignity of 
years and the experience that they bring. 


Of a Child. 


13 


He was Fairfax Marmion, and his father, 
at one time, had been very wealthy. Now, 
however, the family were in straitened 
circumstances. Before his father lost his 
fortune, Fairfax Marmion had high hopes 
and lofty ambitions, but when riches, posi- 
tion, and influence were all swept away on 
the wave of misfortune, he saw his cher- 
ished plans adrift, until finally they were 
dashed against the grim old rock of van- 
ished dreams. 

Perhaps he might have gotten more out 
of the wreck, had his heart been cast in a 
different mold. His brother did not in the 
slightest degree allow the changed condi- 
tions to alter his course in life. In fact, 
there was never a time in George Mar- 
mion’s life when his parents had not given 
him preference. From his infancy he had 
been selfish, shrewd, and calculating, de- 
manding all, and giving nothing. 

Fairfax was brighter by far, and had 
greater natural resources than his brother, 
but he lacked the studious application to 
books and the innate conceit and self-con- 
fidence that were invariably his brothers. 


14 


For the Honor 


So it is not strange that, when the finances 
of the family ebbed, George remained at 
college to finish his course, while Fairfax 
returned home. Then there came to him 
such knowledge of the sacrifices made by 
his father for the college-maintenance as 
caused a blush of shame to spring to his 
cheek. He wrote one letter to his brother, 
informing him of the state of affairs. But 
it was unanswered; it only served to widen 
the breach between them. 

It was now almost two years since Fair- 
fax Marmion returned home. 

Margaret Laurence and Fairfax Mar- 
mion had known each other all their lives, 
and were steadfast friends. Marmion 
hummed a scrap from a college song, 
meanwhile touching the horse indolently 
with the whip as they drove along the 
broad road. 

Isn’t it dreadful, Fax, to be so poor? ” 
Margaret held out her pretty white hands. 
'' I positively haven’t a single pair of gloves 
to my name but what are so shabby that I 
cannot possibly wear them with a white 
dress.” 


Of a Child. 


15 


Marmion looked at her frank face and 
smiled. Well, Tm sure I can’t for the life 
of me see why you should wear gloves, 
Margaret. I never saw any gloves half so 
beautiful as your hands; nor any hands, 
either, for that matter,” he said, looking ad- 
miringly at them. 

“ Nonsense, you foolish boy, how you do 
talk! ” she exclaimed. But she smiled ap- 
provingly. 

‘'Gloves aren’t the only things,” she con- 
tinued earnestly. " Why, just think. I’ve 
worn this dress three summers. It’s 
darned and darned and darned, until there 
is actually none of the original cloth left.” 

" How tragic ! you should get Patti to 
give a farewell concert for your benefit.” 

“And I trimmed this hat myself.” She 
lifted the hat from her head, and held it up 
before his eyes. “ What do you think of 
it. Fax? ” She laughed lightly. 

“What do I think of it?” he repeated. 
“ Why, I think it’s perfect, of course. No 
one else in the wide, wide world could make 
it look quite like that.” 

Margaret was secretly pleased, but she 


For the Honor 


i6 

put the hat back upon her head, and said, 
'' Fax, you are a dear to say that, and yet 
nothing on earth can alter the fact that 
it’s home-made and hideous. Is it on 
straight? ” 

‘‘Yes,” he answered, with a smile, “it’s 
on straight.” 

“ Yes, it’s dreadful to be poor.” She nod- 
ded, and the roses on her hat waved gayly. 
“ I never knew anyone to take things so 
coolly as you. You never seem to care 
what happens. Now be honest. Fax; didn’t 
you feel horribly when your father’s bank 
failed and you lost everything? Didn’t it 
break your heart to leave college; and your 
last year, too? ” she added sympathetically. 

“ Do I look as if my heart were broken? ” 
he asked lazily. 

“ No, you do not. You look as if you 
had no heart to break — quite indifferent. I 
assure you, I never saw such stoical indif- 
ference to everything in general and noth- 
ing in particular.” 

“ Do you want me to tear my hair and 
wring my hands and howl at Fate? What 
good would it do? ” 


Of a Child. 


17 


‘‘ Oh, you know I don’t mean that, Fax! 
I should think, though, it would be a relief 
to express your mind once in a while, in- 
stead of pretending that everything is just 
as you ordered it and to youf* entire satis- 
faction. It was a burning shame when 
George stayed and graduated, and you had 
to come home.” 

‘‘ We couldn’t both stay.” 

“ No, but you could both come,” she an- 
swered shortly. 

Marmion laughed softly as he tucked the 
carriage - robe round Margaret’s white 
dress. 

Let me see,” — she raised her eyes 
thoughtfully, — “ what was I talking 
about?” 

‘‘The curse of poverty,” he responded 
promptly, smiling. 

“ Of course. I was saying how dreadful 
it is to be poor.” 

“ Listen, Margaret.” He turned his head 
and looked at her closely. “ You should 
marry a prince, or a count, or a duke.” 

“ Or even an old king wouldn’t be bad,” 
the girl exclaimed, laughing merrily. 


For the Honor 

‘^Well, he might be bad, yes, — atro- 
ciously bad, — but no doubt he’d answer,” 
he retorted with a smile. 

“ Oh, Fax,” she cried irrelevantly, clasp- 
ing her hands, ‘‘ think of a clear, cold day, 
a seal-skin jacket, and a bunch of violets! ” 

I cannot, Margaret; I dare not. It 
makes me think of a small hot bird and a 
large cold bottle.” He laughed good-na- 
turedly. 

‘‘ A what. Fax? ” 

Never mind, Margaret; it’s a way we 
have at old Harvard; that’s all.” 

But, joking aside. Fax,” she continued 
seriously, ‘‘poverty is sordid. You see, 
there is no getting away from it! It fol- 
lows one round from morning till night, 
like a little imp of Satan.” 

Marmion looked at her, and said noth- 
ing. He pressed his firm lips together. 

“ Isn’t it nice, Fax, to be such good 
friends? ” 

“ Heavenly,” he answered, with a low 
laugh. 

“ Now it would just break my heart,” she 
continued, “ to have some people know to 


Of a Child. 


T9 

what low devices I sink to keep up appear- 
ances. You see, I try to make the world in 
general think I go without my gloves be- 
cause Fm vain of my hands; that I buy a 
pattern bonnet every year, whereas every 
blessed minute Fm cudgeling my brain to 
think how I can trim the old one over — and 
all that sort of thing. But, some way, with 
you it’s different. It’s a joy to be perfectly 
candid! You are the best friend I ever 
had. Fax, and I am quite sure,” she added 
simply, “ that I never want a better one.” 

He held the lax reins in one hand, and 
the whip in the other, resting indolently 
against the soft back of the phaeton. 

Suddenly he turned and looked at her 
with burning, wistful eyes. ‘‘ No need to 
tell, Margaret, how I feel toward you,” he 
said softly. 

A deep flush dyed her face. She felt 
that no one else had ever seen that look in 
his dark eyes. When he ceased speaking 
she sat silent and gazed steadily at the glory 
of the sunset. Every color of the rainbow 
was reflected in the changing hues of the 
radiant sky as the sun sank to rest in fiery 


20 


For the Honor 


grandeur. A soft breeze was stirring, and 
the chilly air was filled with the subtle per- 
fume of departing summer. 

How still and fragrant it is,” she said in 
a low voice. And how beautiful the 
world is.” 

And yet, Margaret, you think it is 
dreadful to be poor,” he said thoughtfully. 

'' Yes, I think so,’' she answered, with an 
emphatic nod. But that doesn’t keep me 
from thinking the world is beautiful, does 
it?” 

And I suppose,” he said slowly, “ that 
you intend to marry for money.” 

'' I didn’t say so,” she retorted quickly. 

What an idea! ” 

But a very good idea, you must admit, 
Margaret.” 

She looked at him in surprise. To her 
his face looked strange and unnatural. 

It is so much easier,” he went on re- 
lentlessly, to love a man if he only has a 
few dollars. And poverty is sordid, and 
mean, and degrading, just as you say, 
and ” 

Stop, Fax! I didn’t mean that. You 


Of a Child. 21 

misunderstood me. You don’t know what 
you are saying.” 

‘‘ Yes, I know what I am saying,” he 
said with a forced smile. 

‘‘Well, then, I think you are unkind to 
speak in that way.” She turned her head 
away, to hide the tears that sprang to her 
eyes. 

“ I didn’t mean to be unkind,” he said 
in a softer voice. “ But I wouldn’t blame 
any girl marrying for money. And I 
wouldn’t be cowardly and mean enough to 
spoil a girl’s life by asking her to share a 
bread-and-water existence with me. Poor 
devils haven’t any business to live,” he con- 
cluded bitterly. 

“ Why, Fax Marmion, what a ridiculous 
boy you are! I never saw you in such a 
strange mood before. What are you talk- 
ing about? ” 

“ I’m talking about poverty,” he an- 
swered grimly. “ Poverty, the little imp of 
Satan.”* 

“ Well, Fax, if you feel as you say you 
do, why don’t you marry for money your- 
self? ” 


22 


For the Honor 


Not in a thousand years. Not if the 
woman weighed a ton, and was worth her 
weight in gold.’’ He shrugged his shoul- 
ders. 

“ Let’s change the subject, Fax,” she 
said softly. ‘‘ I’m afraid you misconstrued 
what I said.” She laid her hand lightly on 
his arm. He clasped it in his and drew it 
quickly toward him. Forgive me, Mar- 
garet,” he said, under his breath; I am a 
brute.” 

“ No, not a brute,” 'she answered, draw- 
ing her hand away. You misunderstood 
what I said, that is all. Of course there are 
some things in this world far dearer than 
money.” She paused a moment, then said 
quickly, But let’s change the subject.” 

He leaned back against the soft cushions 
and pulled his hat down over his eyes. 

' And Richard is himself again,’ ” he 
quoted with a smile. He assumed the old 
indifferent air that was most natural to 
him. 

Yes, let us change the subject,” he said 
musingly. You change it, Margaret.” 

‘‘Isn’t the twilight lovely. Fax?” 


Of a Child. 


23 


Divine/’ he said, laughing lightly. 

“ And what a glorious evening for a 
drive.” 

“Perfect. Do you mind?” — he pointed 
to his cigar-case. 

“ Not in the least.” 

“ Now this is what I call solid comfort.” 
He breathed a sigh of content. 

For some little time they drove on in 
silence. 

Presently Margaret, who had been gaz- 
ing pensively at the soft, still sky, broke the 
spell : 

“ Fax, what is your idea of heaven? ” 

“ Well, Margaret, to be candid, my idea 
of heaven is a perfect summer evening, like 
this, a nice comfortable buggy, like this, a 
slow old horse, like Sam, and a lovely girl 
with yellow hair, like ” 

“ Fairfax Marmion, don’t be sacrilegious! 
I am in earnest. What kind of a place do 
you honestly think heaven is? ” 

“ Margaret, don’t look at me so seriously. 
To tell the truth, I don’t know what I think 
— my ideas are so hazy on the subject, so 
indefinable. Of course I don’t believe as 


24 


For the Honor 


some people do, you know, that we will 
wear crowns and play harps the livelong 
day; such a performance would be unbear- 
able, stupid, and monotonous. And, by 
Jove, Margaret, think of an active business 
man engaged in an occupation like that! ” 

“ Still, Fax, you do believe in a hereafter, 
don’t you?” 

‘‘ Oh yes, certainly! An intelligent per- 
son cannot but feel that there is something 
after this. Nevertheless, the most brilliant 
intellect in the world cannot tell me any 
more in reference to the subject than I al- 
ready know; so why puzzle my poor brain 
over it. What do you think it is like, 
Margaret? ” 

‘‘Ah, Fax, I don’t know; I wish I did! 
But every time I look at the sky and the 
beautiful stars, I somehow think of heaven, 
and feel there is one. Fve never been 
overly religious; Fm too worldly for that; 
still, though I cannot explain why it is so, 
I love the Church and every sacred thing. 
My father said to me, just before he died, 
that no person on this earth had a heaven 
till some loved one passed into the spirit- 


Of a Child. 


25 


land. He said that many a little child had 
made a heaven for thoughtless parents. 
Mother was his heaven; for he died with 
her name on his lips. How well I remem- 
ber his words : ‘ Paradise is the reunion of 
loving hearts.’ And yet,” she said regret- 
fully, ‘‘ he knew absolutely nothing.” 

“That is just it; why ponder a subject 
wholly impenetrable? When you come to 
think of it, how little anyone knows about 
life and death. Who can explain to me the 
cause that compels one heart to cease beat- 
ing at every passing instant, and at the 
same time sets in motion another? Why 
are the millions and millions of imperfect 
human beings necessary to their Divine 
Creator? Why should I think of things so 
maddening? We are born blind, and we 
die blind, and if anyone knows to the con- 
trary, I am open to conviction.” 

“ Life is so sweet,” the girl murmured 
sadly; “and death, how the very name 
gives one the creeps and shivers.” 

“Are you cold? Here, let me put your 
wrap round you. I think we better change 
the subject again.” He laughed softly, as 


26 


For the Honor 


he shook out her little white shawl and 
folded it round her shoulders. 

'' Get up, Sam ! ’’ Marmion shouted, as 
the lazy old horse stopped to rest in the 
middle of the road. ‘‘ For the love of 
heaven creep along, if only for appear- 
ances’ sake.” He flicked him with the 
whip, and the horse started on a trot. 
“ He thinks he’s running away, Margaret.” 

She laughed merrily. 

'' It is really quite chilly,” he added, but- 
toning his coat around his neck. ‘‘ Your 
sealskin jacket wouldn’t come amiss to- 
night.” 

‘‘Yes, it is cold,” she answered. “We 
really have no warm weather in the moun- 
tains. Turn down this street, Fax; I must 
go home now, it’s getting late.” 

He frowned. 

“ Oh, you may come in when we get to 
the house! I’ll make you a cup of tea if 
you’d like it.” 

“ And will you play to me while I 
drink?” 

“ Certainly, if you care to hear me.” 

“If I care to hear you? I know of 


Of a Child, 27 

nothing that would give me a greater 
pleasure.” 

Both were silent for a very long time. 
At length Margaret’s home was reached. 
Marmion helped her from the carriage, and, 
while he tied the horse to the hitching- 
post, he watched her lithe girlish figure in 
the soft twilight till it disappeared within 
the small cottage. Then he followed her 
into the house. 

He sat by a little table and watched her 
prepare the tea. It was cozy, and they were 
such old friends. Besides, Margaret was 
so easy and graceful in her movements, so 
dainty in her ways. And she was one of 
those uncertain creatures whose spirits 
were either in the clouds or in the depths. 
To-night she grew singularly merry and 
light-hearted, and as Fairfax Marmion 
gazed at her changing face and heard 
her mirthful laugh, he too was affected 
by her high spirits, and joined in her 
gayety. 

She spread a white tea-cloth on the table 
and placed a small, shallow dish of purple 
pansies in the centre; first, however, pin- 


28 


For the Honor 


ing one of the flowers on his coat. She 
brought two delicate cups and saucers, two 
little spoons, and a glass jar, filled with 
crackers, and arranged them upon the table. 
She filled the little cups many times, and, 
without questioning, put two lumps of 
sugar in them, as she had often done be- 
fore: and they both laughed because neither 
took cream. 

He told her some funny college esca- 
pades, which, though not quite accurate, 
were highly entertaining. 

And after the tea was gone and the 
cracker jar nearly empty, she went over to 
the piano and played to him what he 
loved best. It was then that the vein of 
sadness lying so near the young girl’s heart 
found an outlet. For, always, when her 
hands wandered caressingly over the keys, 
whether touching the love-notes of some 
dreamy waltz, or playing the chords and 
ripples of the old masters, the music was 
full of an ineffable pathos, and breathed of 
fleeting joys, of buried hopes, of vanished 
faith; it whispered of treasures gone, and, 
alas! never found. 


Of a Child. 


29 


When she finished she turned on the 
stool, and sat motionless. 

There was stillness in the room. He rose 
and came toward her. 

‘‘Good-night, Margaret,'' he said softly; 
“ and thank you." 

She sprang to her feet, as if wakened 
from a dream; she stretched her white hand 
out to him and smiled into his eyes. Her 
cheeks were flushed and her blue eyes were 
lambent. 

“Good-night, Fax," she answered gently. 


FRAGMENT II 


SHE MARRIED A SPANIARD. 

Fairfax Marmion, sitting on the steps 
of a pretty Queen Anne cottage, looked 
thoughtfully around him. Having been 
away from home eight years, — the greater 
part of the time spent in Mexico, — he now 
felt like a stranger in a strange land. To 
him everything seemed changed and un- 
familiar. 

A sweet little woman, with silver hair on 
her temples, delicate wrinkles in her face, 
and brown eyes still bright and youthful 
as his own, sat near him in a low rocker, 
casting tender, loving glances at him, and 
chatting of the changes taken place during 
the past eight years. An unfinished baby’s 
sock lay on her lap, the ball of yarn had 
fallen at her feet. Every detail of his 
30 




1 


For The Honor Of a Child. 31 


father’s death was told, and her tender 
voice filled with emotion as she trailed into 
the past. 

However, by and by, she became cheer- 
ful, and somewhat elated, as she drifted to 
the subject of his brother’s marriage to a 
wealthy girl, and of his prosperous political 
career in an adjoining city. It was the eve 
of election, and George Marmion was deep 
in the race; and that she was proud of him, 
you could tell by the way she held her head 
and by the tones of her voice. 

So, for a long time she talked; of friends 
married, of friends separated, of the pros- 
perity of some, the adversity of others. 
She had been so much alone of late that it 
did her a world of good to unburden her 
heart. 

Finally she stooped down and picked up 
the ball of yarn from the floor, wound it 
close to the little sock, stuck the needles 
through it, and sat in thoughtful silence. 

Marmion’s eyes rested sympathetically 
upon her pathetic figure. ‘‘ And you have 
been lonely, mother? You poor little 
thing!” 


32 


For the Honor 


Sometimes I have been lonely, Fair- 
fax. Still/' she added cheerfully, ‘‘ I have 
my flowers, and they need my constant 
care. And then, once in a while, when he 
can spare the time, George comes with his 
family, and that makes a pleasant change." 

‘‘And once in a while I come, mother: 
say, every eight years or so; and that 
breaks the monotony a little." 

“ You are the same boy," she said, with 
a smile. “ At first your face looked older 
and graver, but now it looks just as it did 
when you left home, with the exception of 
that coat of tan. Why, George looks ten 
years older than you do, and he is two years 
younger." 

“ Well, ril wager I feel twenty years 
older than he does, if I do look younger." 

“ You see, he wears a pointed beard 
now," Mrs. Marmion explained; “that 
makes him appear older, for one thing, and 
then his hair is very thin — he's nearly bald. 
Yours is so thick." 

“ How that must hurt his self-conceit ! " 
Marmion said, with a smile. 

“ No, it's rather becoming. He’s very 


Of a Child. 


33 


philosophical about it; he says he never saw 
a bald-headed fool/’ 

Humph ! he must remember there are 
exceptions to every rule.” 

“ I never could understand, Fairfax, 
why you and George are not better friends 
— and brothers, too,” she said regretfully. 

‘‘ And I never could understand why peo- 
ple should care for each other simply be- 
cause the tie of blood exists. Because a 
man is my brother is no sign I care for his 
company, is it? Do you suppose for an in- 
stant that I love you just because you’re my 
mother?” 

Without doubt.” 

‘‘ Not so. I would love you just as hard 
were you someone else’s mother.” 

Mrs. Marmion laughed. She loved both 
sons; but one appealed to her head, the 
other to her heart. Don’t be so contrary, 
Fairfax, you always were a mass of 
contradictions. It’s well I understand 
you.” 

I wish that I did,” he responded hastily. 
‘‘ But really I’m not contrary, mother. 
George and I were never congenial and 


34 


For the Honor 


never will be if we live a hundred years.' 
He's not my style, that's all.” 

George has always been a good boy. 
I have great honor and respect for him/' 
the mother went on loyally. ‘‘ And I must 
say he has managed his affairs beautifully 
of late.” 

‘‘ He is a master hand at that,” Marmion 
said sotto voce. “ His theory is, Life is what 
we make it. But I can't agree with him 
there; for, I think circumstances so often 
alter the course of one's life.” 

Not with him.” 

‘/Alice is lovely,” Mrs. Marmion pro- 
ceeded cheerfully. “ Think how lucky he 
was to get an adoring wife like Alice, com- 
bined with youth, beauty, and money.” 

“ And think how unlucky she was,” Mar- 
mion laughed. 

“ Fairfax, have you no respect for your 
mother? ” she said, smiling down on him 
with mock severity. 

He leaned back and kissed her hand. 
“ All the respect in the universe for my 
mother, but none for George.” 

“ I'm afraid Alice won't like you. Fair- 


Of a Child. 


35 


fax. She thinks George is perfect. She’s 
so proud of him, and actually has an idea 
that some day he’ll be President of the 
United States. 

‘'Heaven forbid!” Marmion said fer- 
vently. 

“ Ah, my dear boy,” she said, “ I often 
sit and dream of the time when you were 
little fellows. You two never did get along 
together; there was nothing you did not 
quarrel about. George always had such 
good judgment. But you, my dear, were 
awful. Why, poor father used to say that 
he no sooner got you out of one scrape 
than you were into another a thousand 
times worse. Yet no one knows how he 
loved you. Pie couldn’t disguise from me 
the truth that you were his favorite child, 
though he strenuously denied it. I can 
hear his dear voice now, as he said sor- 
rowfully every time you were punished, 
‘ Poor Fax, poor Fax! ’ Yes, often in 
speaking of you, after you had gone from 
home, he would repeat it so tenderly.” 

Marmion pressed her hand and rose to 
his feet. He leaned against a pillar of the 


36 


For the Honor 


porch. Both were silent, he fixing his eyes 
upon the large house opposite. 

And Margaret Laurence lives in that 
palace? ” said he presently, with a low 
laugh. 

‘'Yes, when she’s here; but that isn’t 
often. You see, she’s only recently re- 
turned from Europe, where they’ve been for 
several years. I believe Mr. Lamadrid has 
valuable property in Spain. No one seems 
to know much about him, though, outside 
his being a very rich man. And no one 
knows just how much he is worth. He is 
reported to have made a fabulous sum of 
money in mines. I believe he claims to 
have inherited a large fortune from his 
father; his father was a Spaniard.” 

“ Whatever possessed him to build such 
a house as that in this place? 

“ Well, I don’t know, unless it was his 
wife’s whim. You know this was always 
her home before she married; perhaps it 
was on that account.” 

“ How does she look, mother. Is she as 
beautiful as ever?” 

“ Dear me, Fairfax, I don’t know.” 


Of a Child. 


37 


Mrs. Marmion hesitated. ‘‘ Of course, it's 
different now. She was only a young girl 
when you left home^ — wore simple frocks 
and hats, and always had a pleasant word 
and a bright smile for everyone. Yes, as 
I remember her, she was sweet and pretty 
then, but now " 

‘‘ Now? ” he said eagerly. 

‘‘ She wears magnificent dresses and hats, 
and walks like a queen, and seems so proud 
and cold. I've never been inside her house, 
so I know very little of her. I don't believe 
she cares for friends. You see, Fairfax, 
I'm an old-fashioned woman — ^just a home- 
body — and she, she " 

“ Is the gayest of the gay." 

“ No, no, I don't mean that! She's not 
the gay kind at all; she's stately and quiet; 
at least that's the way she impresses me. 
They live very much to themselves." She 
paused a moment. Some way, she has 
drifted into another world, and I don't seem 
to know her any more. For that matter, 
no one round here does. If she's seen, it's 
generally with her husband. Driving and 
church are the only places I've seen her 


38 


For the Honor 


without him. She attends the Episcopal 
church regularly. It seems incredible she 
ever could have been poor. And yet there 
is no doubt but what things were desperate 
with her at one time. I think it was a short 
time after you left that she had such a ter- 
rible sick spell; however, it's been so long 
agoi IVe forgotten just what it was. Any- 
way, she was sick for months, and when 
she got well someone else had managed 
to get her music scholars, and she lost 
every one of them. And then her aunt 
died, and there was a mortgage on the 
house, and someone took it. I've heard 
people say, rather than let anyone know of 
her poverty she pawned everything, even 
her mother's engagement ring, which her 
father gave her on his death-bed." 

Marmion's dark face grew white. Surely 
she must have been cold and hungry and 
desolate when she parted with that ring! 

‘‘ Of course I don't know how much 
truth there is in what they say, and people 
do love to talk, but I do know that at the 
present time she is rich, and lives in ele- 
gance, with a devoted husband, who lav- 


Of a Child. 


39 


ishes everything on her, which only serves 
to illustrate the strange workings of Fate.” 

“ It does, indeed,” murmured Marmion 
as he took a cigar from his pocket and 
lighted it. 

“ They’ve one child,” Mrs. Marmion 
went on, “ a little boy. I often feel sorry 
for the poor thing, they keep him so close. 
Of course I know the grounds are big and 
roomy, and he has dogs and horses and 
everything there to play with; still, he must 
get lonely: he’s never allowed to associate 
with other children. You’d think he be- 
longed to the royal family the way they 
act. He is such a dear little fellow, 
too! ” 

Marmion puffed away in silence. 

“ Do you know, Fairfax, at one time I 
thought you were in love with her. It 
shows how mistaken one can be.” 

“ I was,” he answered shortly, taking the 
cigar from his mouth. 

“ You were? Why, Fairfax! ” 

“ I mean what I say, mother. Why do 
you look so surprised?” 

‘‘ Surely she could not have refused to 


40 


For the Honor 


marry you ! ” She looked wonderingly at 
his strong, fine face. 

** I never asked her.” 

“ Never asked her! Why not? ” 
Poverty,” he said shortly. 

“Because she was poor! Why, I 
never knew you were mercenary, Fair- 
fax! George was, but not you, not you! ” 

“ I am not mercenary, and never was. I 
did not ask her to be my wife on account 
of my own poverty. I would have followed 
her to perdition if I had not been a penni- 
less dog.” 

“ Don't speak so, it's not like you; ” she 
raised her hand reprovingly. 

“ It is true,” he said. 

“Did she love you?” A faint flush 
mantled her cheek. 

“ I never asked her.” 

“Never asked her? Dear me! dear 
me!” cried Mrs. Marmion. 

“ It is evident I did not sacrifice myself 
in vain.” He waved his hand toward the 
great stone house. 

“ Oh yes ! I firmly believe that a wise 
Providence orders everything for the best; 


Of a Child. 


41 


and yet,” her voice fluttered, I’m old-fash- 
ioned enough to be romantic. I dare not 
stop to think what this world would have 
been to me had not your dear father asked 
me for my love. Why, we were playmates, 
sweethearts, and lovers! And how happy 
we were ! in poverty and in wealth I ” A 
tear rolled down the faded cheek. 

For a while Marmion smoked in silence, 
his face impassive, unreadable. His mother 
swayed to and fro, one foot noiselessly 
touching the floor. 

At length she said gently, “ Fairfax?” 

‘‘ Yes, mother.” 

“ Do you think I’m a foolish old 
woman? ” 

'‘No, mother, never!” he cried quickly. 

" You see, Fairfax, your dear father and 
I were like one person; he was my whole 
world, and when he was taken from me it 
nearly killed me. My heart has never 
beaten since — never, never! Forgive me 
for being so serious. Of course I know 
your love for Margaret Laurence was 
simply a boyish fancy — am I not right? ” 

He came behind her, and drew her head 


42 


For the Honor 


back and kissed her on the forehead. A 
boyish fancy,” he repeated after her, smil- 
ing into her inquiring eyes. 

Oh, Tm so glad to hear you say that! 
Some way, when you said you did love her, 
even though it was long ago, it gave me 
such a queer feeling. I cannot describe it. 
And occasionally, dear, I’ve imagined you 
were sad.” 

How can you ever think that of 
me?” 

‘‘ My dear, I know you’re always joking, 
and your letters were bright and cheerful, 
and yet— oh, well 1 your father used to read 
things between the lines.” 

‘‘ It was all imagination,” said he de- 
cidedly. Still, I turn out such miserable 
letters, with so little on the lines, I don’t 
wonder dear father tried to find something 
between them.” 

His words were light, though he did not 
smile. His mother looked at him puzzled 
— she never knew just how to take him. 
Still she smiled as she rose to her feet. She 
shook out the folds of her heavy black silk, 
smoothed her lace cap, and laid her knit- 


Of a Child. 


43 


ting in the rocking-chair. Leaving him, 
she went to tend the flowers. 

Marmion stood motionless. He was en- 
deavoring to solve the trying little problem, 
What elements composed a boyish fancy? 

Presently an open carriage drew up in 
front of the great stone house. Leaning 
back in its comfortable depths was a woman 
of rare loveliness, elegantly gowned in 
costly lace; a violet toque rested upon her 
abundant hair. Her face was very pale. 
By her side sat a child; and he too was 
beautifully dressed. Fairfax Marmion 
gave a start! It was Margaret Lamadrid 
and her son! The years had turned her 
yellow hair to burnished bronze, and deep- 
ened her eyes to a violet hue; but there was 
no mistaking her face. 

The problem of a boyish fancy was 
solved so far as he was concerned— it was 
the chrysalis of a fearful and wonderful love. 

As in a dream he saw her mount the 
steps, graceful, slender, and shapely, one 
hand clasping the boy’s, the other slightly 
lifting her dress from the violet silk petti- 
coat beneath. 


44 For the Honor Of a Child. 


She passed into the house; and when the 
massive door closed, a feeling of desolation 
came over him. And yet everything he 
had ever hoped or dreamed for Margaret 
Laurence had come true — riches! honor! 
happiness! love! Was it really a fact that 
they had been such good friends? Friends! 
Why, he had loved her all his life. And he 
loved her now; for the mere sight of that 
face set his heart beating wildly and caused 
the blood to quicken in his veins. They 
too had been playmates, and sweethearts, 
and lovers; while now eternal seas rolled 
between them, and they had not even one 
thought in common. 

He lived over the scenes of those dear 
days, that could not come again. And 
especially did one never-to-be-forgotten 
day haunt him hopelessly — a day when he 
was very ill and Margaret had come to him 
with a soft, wistful look. But he had hard- 
ened his heart, sealed his lips, and cast away 
the treasure of her love. 

And now she could never be his! He 
was forgotten! His philosophy of resigna- 
tion was gone. 


FRAGMENT IIL 


DON SANTIAGO LAURENCE 
LAMADRID. 

It was now more than a week since Fair- 
fax Marmion had returned to his home. 
He had decided to remain indefinitely with 
his mother: she was lonely, fast growing 
old, and needed his care. Aside from this, 
he was tired of Mexico and longed to spend 
a few months in his native land, under the 
folds of the Stars and Stripes. 

Mrs. Marmion was celestially happy at 
his decision; it was a glad time for her, a 
sweet compensation for the loneliness of the 
past. Her mother-love clung about him 
from morning till night, showing itself un- 
ceasingly in watchful tenderness : they chat- 
ted together, took long walks in the cool 
evenings, had delightful meals in the cozy 
dining-room, and lived a peaceful, hum- 


45 


46 


For the Honor 


drum life — to one, at least, a perfect ex- 
istence. 

And all the time Marmion thought of 
Margaret. That one fleeting glimpse of 
her had filled him with the demon of unrest. 
When separated from her by miles and 
miles of space, when he could not see her, 
a certain sad content had rested in his heart. 
But now? Every day he stood at the win- 
dow, and, with burning impatience, watched 
for a glimpse of her. And he was unhappy 
— yes, wretched and overflowing with 
misery; for he remembered that he was 
nothing to her. 

To-day he was alone in the house. He 
sat in the library, idly turning the pages of 
a book, feigning to read it, meanwhile 
lighting his cigar whenever it chanced to 
go out, which was frequently. 

Mrs. Marmion had departed hurriedly at 
an early hour that morning, in answer to a 
summons from her son George, who, 
though he had never given his mother the 
slightest consideration, was selfishly prompt 
to call upon her in time of trouble. The 
baby had scarlet fever, and the household. 


Of a Child. 


47 


to judge from the letter, was apparently 
panic-stricken. She wanted Marmion to 
accompany her to his brother’s home. 
But this he would not do, under any con- 
ditions. So she started off on the early 
train, leaving him with numberless loving 
commands as to what he was to do during 
her absence. He smiled as he recalled her 
parting words : ‘‘ Eat three meals a day, 
water the flowers morning and evening, 
but never when the sun is shining on them; 
close and fasten the shutters every night, 
wear overshoes if it looks like rain,” and 
heaven knows what not! How had he 
escaped with his life the years spent in 
Mexico? 

The library opened onto a broad low 
porch, covered with creeping vines. It was 
his favorite room in the house. The walls 
were lined with shelves of valuable books, a 
few good pictures were hung in odd nooks, 
there was a grate with a mantel over it, a 
goodly number of deep, easy chairs, some 
time-worn rugs and soft curtains. Every- 
thing was faded and shabby, yet it was a 
room full of comfort and cheeriness, teem- 


48 


For the Honor 


ing with pleasant reminders of departed 
prosperity. Mr. Marmion’s extensive in- 
terests had been largely centred in real 
estate. All of this was swept away at the 
time of his failure, with the exception of the 
unpretentious Queen Anne cottage, with 
its neat lawn and pretty flower beds. 
This was the sole piece of property left the 
family after the business-settlement had 
been completed. So they moved from the 
large house, where they were living, back 
into the cottage, that had formerly been a 
happy home for them. 

Suddenly Marmion heard a low rap on 
the door. 

‘‘ Come in! ” he called, looking up from 
his book. 

The knob turned, and the door opened 
slowly. A little boy stood on the thresh- 
old, a little boy perhaps five years 
old. 

Marmion gazed at him in astonishment. 

Her child! ” he said under his breath. He 
knew it the minute he saw him — knew it by 
the expression of his eyes, the long, dark 
lashes, the way the soft hair grew on his 


Of a Child 


49 

forehead, the scarlet lips, like cherries, the 
pure white skin. Fate had sent him. 

I come to see you ” — the boy hesitated, 
as if uncertain of his welcome from the big 
fellow in the chair. 

Marmion smiled. ‘‘ Won’t you come in 
and sit down? ” 

The child came in and looked slowly 
round the room. He was a straight little 
fellow, with a grace about him that was 
very charming. Nature had endowed him 
with physical beauty; and this would have 
,made him noticeable in any rank of life. 
Aside from this beauty, however, he had a 
high-born, princely air, as if descended 
from royal blood of long ago. His clothes, 
so rich, and yet so simply made, bore a for- 
eign stamp, thus adding to his distin- 
guished appearance. 

‘‘ My name is Don Santiago Laurence 
Lamadrid,” he announced; and his voice 
fell on his companion’s senses like a sweet 
echo from the past. 

Upon my word and honor, you don’t 
say so?” laughed Marmion. ‘‘The Span- 
ish Cavalier, perhaps? Don Santiago 


50 


For the Honor 


Laurence Lamadrid/’ he repeated slowly. 

Quite a name that! ’’ 

That’s what Don Ricardo calls me, and 
they call me Santiago in Spain. But 
mother says in the United States I’m just 
plain Jim Laurence Lamadrid. I was 
named for my grandfather who is in heaven. 
His name was Jim Laurence. Jim don’t 
sound much like Santiago, does it? But 
mother says they are the same, and she 
knows.” 

Marmion laid his book upon the table, 
his half-smoked cigar beside it, and smiled 
down upon the trusting face of the 
child. 

‘‘ Well, I must say, I’m glad to make 
your acquaintance under any name,” he 
said, with mock gravity. I was con- 
foundedly lonesome before you came. And 
I don’t think names cut much figure, any- 
way. It’s the individual who makes the 
name seem nice, or otherwise, and I can’t 
imagine your royal highness with any name 
that wouldn’t be entirely satisfactory — be it 
Don Santiago Laurence Lamadrid, or just 
plain United States Jim,” 


Of a Child. 


51 

The boy looked into the face of his new- 
found friend and smiled. 

‘‘ What is your name? ’’ 

‘‘ Fairfax Marmion, at your service.” 

‘‘ Have you got a little boy like me?” 

‘‘ No, Fm sorry to say I haven't.” 

The child's face fell, and he gazed at Mar- 
mion with anxious eyes. 

Then you must be very lonely.” 

I am lonely; perhaps you'll be my little 
boy.” 

The child shook his head. ‘‘ No, I can't. 
I'm my mother's boy.” He looked 
thoughtful, then said seriously, “ Why don't 
you ask God to send you one? He'll 
do it. He's got a great many little 
boys.” 

Upon my word, you don't mean it? If 
that's the case. I'll ask him immediately.” 
Marmion picked up his cigar and began 
puffing it into a flame. 

What are you going to do when your 
little boy comes? ” 

‘‘ That is an appalling question,” Mar- 
mion replied, to ask an old bachelor like 
me — especially inopportune, since I have 


52 


For the Honor 


never given the subject any consideration. 
Let me think.” 

He meditated a while, wrinkling his 
smooth forehead into many lines. “ What 
am I going to do when my little boy comes? 
Well, I suppose I'll play marbles, and spin 
tops, and fly kites, and play ball with him. 
Then we will surely hang up our socks for 
Santa Claus, and have Christmas trees, and 
parties and presents on our birthdays. In 
the long winter evenings I suppose we’ll sit 
by the fire, and he’ll pop corn while I read 
the Arabian Nights, and Little Red Riding- 
hood, and Jack the Giant Killer, and Cin- 
derella, and all the fairy stories penned by 
mortal man.” 

The boy’s eyes sparkled. 

Then, let me see, sometimes in the sum- 
mer we’ll go to the sea-shore, you know. 
But, before we go, I’ll buy him some over- 
alls that bag at the knee, and a brand-new 
shovel, so that he can dig in the sand like a 
sturdy Trojan the livelong day, while I lie 
very near him, stretched out as comfortable 
as a clam, with my briar-wood pipe in my 
mouth. As for myself. I’ll think what a 


Of a Child. 


S3 


fine fellow he is, and how favored I am by 
the gods. And, of course. Til be sorry for 
all the other inhabitants of the earth, to 
think that none of them have quite such a 
nice little boy as mine. But that goes with- 
out saying ! ” 

‘‘ Are you going to send him to school? 

‘‘Oh yes, certainly! After a few years 
no doubt he’ll go to school. And after he’s 
climbed that rugged path he’ll go to col- 
lege, where he’ll shine in football, learn to 
row a boat, to vault a fence six feet high, 
and to exercise his muscles until they are 
like iron bands ; at the same time the minor 
detail of finishing at the head of his class 
will be accomplished, and then, after all 
that, he’s going to be something. I don’t 
know what; but whatever it is, the best of 
its kind in the whole world.” With a smile 
he looked at the child. “ How do you 
think my little boy will like that pro- 
gramme? ” 

“ I think he’ll love you,” the boy said 
simply. He had followed Marmion’s words 
with wonderful deference to the end, 
though he only understood them in part. 


54 For the Honor 

but he found his manner exceedingly fas- 
cinating. 

‘‘What would you like to be, Jim? — I 
mean, when you grow up to be a man? ’’ 

The boy had evidently given the subject 
some consideration, for he said quickly, ‘‘ I 
think rd like to be a drum-major better 
than anything else — a drum-major with a 
red plume in my hat and a stick to throw 
up in the air. Sometimes I take Don Ri- 
cardo’s cane and march round the room 
with it, and pretend Fm a drum-major — 
just play, you know. Mother she plays the 
piano and pretends she’s the brass band. 
We have lots of fun together.” 

‘‘ I should think you might.” 

I used to want to be a policeman,” con- 
tinued the boy, with lots of brass buttons 
on my coat and a star on my breast, and say 
ta-rum-ta-rah. And once I wanted to be a 
general and go to war on a big horse with 
a regiment of soldiers; but a drum-major’s 
the greatest, I guess.” He lifted his eyes 
to Marmion’s face. Anyhow, Fd like to 
wear a uniform when Fm a man.” 

Bless your little heart, I know lots of 


Of a Child. 


55 


men who feel the same way. But have a 
chair and make yourself comfortable,” he 
added. 

‘‘ Thank you,” the child answered 
quietly. He held his bright red cap in 
his hand and walked up to the different 
pictures in the room, scrutinizing them 
carefully. ‘‘ Fm very fond of good pic- 
tures,” he said in an old-fashioned way, 
which caused Marmion to laugh aloud. 

‘‘ I like books, too,” he went on, gazing 
at the walls. ‘‘ WeVe got heaps of books 
.and pictures over at our house.” 

He climbed into a big chair, — apparently 
as much at home as if all the days of his life 
had been spent in this house, — and crossed 
his little legs. 

Marmion was wondering what to say to 
him next. He had never been thrown with 
children, and this one was certainly a 
strange little soul. 

Meanwhile the boy was gazing thought- 
fully into his face. Finally he said, ‘‘ Did 
you ever see my Uncle Fax? ” 

‘‘ Your Uncle Fax? ” 

Once — a long time ago— when I was 


56 


For the Honor 


quite small, mother showed me a picture; 
she said it was my Uncle Fax, and it looked 
like you — it did/’ 

‘‘ A long time ago, when you were quite 
small,” Marmion repeated, laughing again. 

‘‘ Yes, a long time ago; when we lived in 
Spain. I was sick that day.” He paused, 
before adding with a deep sigh, ‘‘ I guess 
my Uncle Fax must be dead.” 

‘'What makes you think so?” asked 
Marmion. 

“Oh! because mother cried when she 
looked at his picture.” 

Marmion’s heart stopped beating for an 
instant. Margaret, in the midst of her tri- 
umphs and glory, had shed tears for him! 

“ Wouldn’t you like to look at my watch? 
I’ll let you wind it,” Marmion said, his 
honor demanding a change of subject. 

“ No, thank you. I have a watch of my 
own. Mother gave it to me on my last 
birthday. I love my mother better than 
anybody in the world.” He paused a mo- 
ment, then said emphatically, his red lip 
curling, “ I don’t love Don Ricardo, 
though. I hate him.” 


Of a Child. 


57 


Marmion looked at him in surprise. 

“ My dear fellow, and who is the unfor- 
tunate Don Ricardo?’’ 

My father,” he answered slowly. 

Alarmion’s face changed color at these 
words. ‘‘ Why don’t you say your father, 
then? ” 

‘‘ Oh, he don’t want to be fathered by 
anyone! He said so; and I do hate him,” 
the child said persistently. 

“ See here, Jim,” Marmion said, 
‘‘ wouldn’t you like to play a game of 
cards with me — casino, or old maid, or 
something equally exciting? Don’t you 
know you mustn’t talk family secrets? It’s 
not allowed in polite society.” 

‘‘ No, I wouldn’t like to play cards. Don 
Ricardo plays cards, and he’s a wicked 
man. One night he was playing cards 
with a man and the man said Don Ricardo 
was cheating and Don Ricardo said the 
man was a bad name; and then mother 
said the man was right, Don Ricardo did 
cheat, for she saw him. My, but Don 
Ricardo was terribly mad at mother! He 
took her upstairs to the third story, and 


For the Honor 


58 

held her over the banister, and said he^d 
dash her to the bad place if she didn’t take 
back what she said and say he wasn’t cheat- 
ing. And she was sorry, and she said 
that he didn’t cheat, and she was sick 
in bed. Don Ricardo don’t know I saw 
him, but I did; I was behind him all the 
time.” The child grew very much excited 
as he hurried along with his disjointed sen- 
tences. Once he threw a brass lamp at 
mother and spoiled her dress; it was a silk 
one too, a lovely dress. He don’t want her 
to talk to anybody but me.” He nodded 
solemnly. He was out of breath. . 

Marmion stared at him in amazement and 
horror. Was he speaking the truth? The 
boy’s frank, truthful eyes met his unshrink- 
ingly. 

‘‘ I’m her sweetheart and she’s mine,” he 
said fondly, tapping the arm of the chair 
with his hand. 

Marmion dropped his head on the table 
and covered his face with his hands. 

In a flash it dawned upon him! He did 
not suffer alone! He had shipwrecked’two 
lives. The petty hardships of his life were 


Of a Child. 59 

as chaff in comparison to what she had 
struggled through. 

The child slipped from the chair and 
came over and put his hand upon Mar- 
mion’s knee. 

‘‘Are you sick?” he asked sympatheti- 
cally. 

“ Sick at heart, Jim.” He took the child 
upon his knee, pushed back the soft 
brown hair from the forehead, and gazed 
long and wistfully into his face, where Mar- 
garet’s beauty was repeated. A sweet sense 
of consolation stole over him. 

“ Say Fax, Jim,” he whispered softly. 

“ Fax,” the child said lovingly, putting 
his arms round Marmion’s neck and press- 
ing his soft cheek against his face. 
“ Mother hugs me that way. Kiss me, 
Fax, I love you — oh, I love you so much! 
Next to my mother, I best love you,” he 
said confidingly. “ Do you feel better 
now? ” 

“ Yes, Fm all right, now,” Marmion re- 
sponded with a smile. “That kiss made 
me well.” 

His heart was like lead, notwithstanding 


6o 


For the Honor 


he was as calm as if the cruel words uttered 
and forgotten by the child had not been 
spoken. 

For a moment the boy sat quite still. He 
was very serious. By and by he said 
gravely: ‘‘ Did you ever see a fairy? 

Not that I remember.” 

‘‘ Did you ever see God? ” 

Did I ever see God? Why, my dear 
fellow, what funny questions you do ask.” 

‘‘ Well, did you?” 

No; I don’t think I ever did.” 

Neither did I. He can see you and he 
can see me, though. Mother says he can 
see everyone. He made the world, and the 
people, and the fairies, and — and — the 
giants. Don Ricardo says it’s bosh, he 
thinks there is no God. But mother says 
there is, and she knows. It makes her 
sorry when Don Ricardo says there is no 
God.” 

Certainly there is a God. Your mother 
is right,” Marmion said quickly. 

“ Is God a man? ” 

Dear me, no ! Do you see that large 
book under the table? Bring it here, and 


Of a Child. 


6i 


I will show you the pictures. I am afraid 
Tm not up to date on the subject of 
theology.’’ 

The boy did not move. 

‘‘Well, he isn’t a lady, is he?” 

“ Dear me, no! of course not. God I be- 
lieve to be a spirit — a wonderful divine 
spirit.” 

“ What’s a spirit? ” 

Marmion got up and placed the child in 
the chair where he had been sitting, and 
walked over to a stand and lighted a fresh 
cigar. His brow contracted, and he turned 
and looked at his little questioner. He 
came back and took him upon his knee 
again. 

“ Let’s start all over, Jim.” 

“ Start what all over? ” 

“Anything, anything!” Marmion an- 
swered hastily. 

“ Start God over, do you mean? ” 

“ No, anything but that.” 

Silence for a moment. 

“ Mother says God is everywhere — 
everywhere at once. Think how big he 
is to be every place at once. He’s as 


62 


For the Honor 


big as the whole world. Bigger, I guess. 
It’s funny we can’t see him when he’s so 
big. Mother says he loves everybody who 
is good and tries to do right, and takes 
care of them, too.” 

‘‘ Yes, yes, it is true.” Marmion was 
gazing into space. 

‘‘ Well, mother tries to do right, don’t 
she; and she’s good, isn’t she?” 

An angel,” said Marmion under his 
breath. 

Then why does he let Don Ricardo 
treat her mean and make her cry? ” 

Marmion clasped the sunny head close 
to his breast. Why? oh, why? ” he cried; 

that is whjat I want to know! ” 

I like to hear about God and the angels, 
and giants and fairies,” the child said art- 
lessly. After a pause: “ Do you know any 
fairy stories? ” 

‘‘ Would you like to have me tell you 
one? ” 

''Yes; I’m fond of stories. Mother 
knows the most beautiful ones. Will you 
tell me one? ” 

" I’ll try.” 


Of a Child. 


63 


The small figure nestled down again in 
the strong arms, and Marmion repeated to 
him the story of the Enchanted Land: 

“ Once upon a time, long, long ago, there 
dwelt a powerful king and his good queen 
in a great marble palace. 

‘‘ Now the queen was kind and affection- 
ate, and possessed a gentle disposition, a 
warm heart, and a love for the poor, so that 
she was beloved by her subjects, and they 
sang her praises from morning till night. 

But the king, on the contrary, was 
mean and crafty, and had a heart filled to 
overflowing with avarice and covetous- 
ness. 

‘‘ He also had an inordinate passion for 
riches, and cried incessantly, ‘ Gold, gold, 
more gold ! ’ So domineering and tyranni- 
cal were his ways, that he was hated and de- 
spised by everyone in his dominion. 

‘‘ When his subjects came laden with 
gold and precious stones and bowed low be- 
fore him, he would laugh loudly, clap his 
hands clamorously, and be merry. 

“ Often, however, they searched far and 


64 


For the Honor 


wide without avail, and then when they 
knelt before him, stretching forth their 
empty hands in fear and trembling, he 
would tear his hair, gnash his teeth, and in 
a voice of thunder order them beheaded. 

‘‘ The king and queen had a son, — an 
only child, — and in the entire land there 
was not another youth so handsome or so 
charming. He was straight as an arrow, 
strong as a lion, with a happy laugh like the 
tinkle of silver bells, and the people called 
him Prince Trueheart. 

‘‘ In the country adjoining this kingdom 
there dwelt another king, greater and 
mightier than any monarch on earth; for 
he had the wonderful faculty of turning 
whatever he touched into gold. The castle 
of this king was constructed of gold, the 
turrets overshadowing it were one mass of 
priceless jewels, the grounds surrounding it 
were paved with blocks of onyx, and the 
gates leading to the princely mansion were 
formed of massive pearls. This monarch 
had an only daughter, who sat on a golden 
throne the livelong day, clothed in a gown 
of spun-gold. On her head gleamed a 


Of a Child. 


6s 


crown of diamonds, and her white satin slip- 
pers were studded with emeralds and rubies. 
But, alas! the face of this princess was hide- 
ous to look upon — so hideous, that when the 
people came to pay her homage they bowed 
low, with closed eyes. And the old king 
laughed heartily and said, ‘ Behold, the 
beauty of my daughter is so splendid and 
dazzling that my subjects cannot look upon 
it!’ 

“ Now, although this kingdom was the 
most prosperous in the world, containing 
the rarest treasures the earth could yield, 
still the name of the ruler did not wield such 
power as that of the avaricious king, and it 
was a thorn in his path, a thorn which grew 
lusty and tall and annoyed him unceasingly. 
But the wily old king, after pondering the 
matter, bethought him of a way out of the 
difficulty, and straightv/ay he dispatched a 
messenger into the adjoining kingdom, and 
demanded the hand of Prince Trueheart for 
his daughter. 

The avaricious king heard the message 
with profound joy, and sent word to the 
wily old king, with exceeding haste, that his 


66 


For the Honor 


son would be honored above all mortals to 
make the princess his wife. 

“ Then he summoned Prince Trueheart 
to his presence, and said, ‘ My son, I am, j 
you know, growing old, and fain would I j 
see you wed ere I die. It is my desire that 
the princess of the adjoining land should be 
your bride. She is young and beautiful, 
and upon the king's death will inherit the 
wonderful power of touching and turning 
to gold.' 

‘‘ The young prince was sorely grieved 
at these words and knelt before his sire and 
said? ‘ Oh, king! you know full well that 
it is my desire to obey and honor you in all 
things. Gladly would I give my life for 
yours, but I cannot wed this princess; she 
is fearsome to look upon, and I care not for 
her gold.' 

Then was the king furiously enraged, 
and he answered in an angry voice, ‘ Out of 
my sight, oh, wretched son! Let me not 
look again upon your ungrateful face until 
you are ready to depart and seek the hand 
of this noble princess. Three days may 
you have to consider this matter. If, at the 


Of a Child. 


67 


expiration of that time, you still refuse to do 
my bidding, I command that you be ban- 
ished from this castle, and wander a beggar 
on the face of the earth forever.’ 

So the young prince said no more, but 
walked in the garden surrounding the pal- 
ace, feeling sad and sorrowful and thinking 
of many things the good queen-mother had 
told him. 

‘‘ When he was a very little boy she 
was wont to take him on her knee 
and relate to him a story of an 
Enchanted Land. She told him of a 
fair country where the sky was blue as 
turquoise, the soft, green grass was like 
a velvet carpet, the clear fountains shim- 
mered like the sparkling dew, and majestic 
swans glided over the irradiant lakes. And 
the flowers that inhabited this ideal land 
were the loveliest the sun ever shone on. 
There were blushing roses, hiding behind 
the green leaves; there were tender violets 
murmuring their plaintive stories to the 
merry bluebells; there were fond forget-me- 
nots and bright-eyed daisies nestling in 
the long grasses; there were stately lilies, 


68 


For the Honor 


brilliant carnations, gay poppies, and proud 
dahlias dwelling together in sweet content- 
ment. In short, there was not a flower 
known to the wide world that had not un- 
folded itself in this rich garden. Near the 
lofty entrance-gate grew a bush, on which 
the queen of this Enchanted Land, a 
glorious white rose, bloomed in gracious 
loveliness: now swaying her delicate fra- 
grant body to the ardent caresses of the 
wind, now lifting her pure face to meet the 
warm kisses of the sun, now nodding her 
golden-crowned head to her adoring 
flowers. 

“ One day, as the queen slumbered, a 
tiny child-fairy crept close to her heart and 
pressed a soft face against the petals of the 
rose. When the queen awoke and saw the 
exquisite elf she marveled greatly. 

“‘It is a gift from heaven!’ she ex- 
claimed and trembled. ‘ She shall be my 
daughter, and her name shall be the Prin- 
cess Love.’ 

“ So the queen gave a grand ball in honor 
of the child-fairy, and the dainty blossoms 
came. They v/ere conveyed to her royal 


Of a Child. 


69 


I presence in quaint pink sea-shells, drawn by 
! sturdy little bees clad in gorgeous golden- 
brown robes of state. 

‘‘ Some of the flowers danced in the misty 
moonlight to soft, delightful music, their 
lithesome feet scarce touching the green 
mosses; others were in golden barges, 
borne by snowy swans over the glowing 
lakes, and they whispered words of love, 
pressing their velvety cheeks close together. 

Later in the evening they feasted on de- 
licious honey and intoxicating dew, served 
by gay young butterflies, from glittering 
plates and opalescent glasses, and they were 
very merry. 

‘‘ And when the stars grew pale in the 
heavens their tiny heads drooped from 
weariness, and their tiny eyes blinked from 
sleepiness, and they clasped each others’ 
hands, forming a circle around their be- 
loved queen and her dainty daughter. 

‘‘ Then the queen’s maids of honor 
stepped into the magic circle and bestowed 
wondrous gifts upon the Princess Love. 
And lo! after each in turn waved its fairy 
wand above her, she stood before them, di- 


70 For the Honor 

vinely fair, an embodiment of their own 
perfection ! 

'' She was stately and graceful as the lily 
in her gold-embroidered robes, her eyes 
were blue and soft, like the forget-me-not, 
her silken hair floated on the midsummer 
air, yellow as the jonquil, with the fragrance 
of the violet; her brow, and neck, and arms 
were pure and white as the snowdrop, the 
faint blush of the rose was on her cheeks, 
and the crimson dye of the carnation had 
tinted her lips. 

Never before had such loveliness and 
fragrance graced a fair maid. It was of 
this enthralling maiden that Prince True- 
heart was thinking as he wandered alone in 
the king's garden. 

The three days sped quickly, and at 
the end Prince Trueheart could not make 
up his mind to wed the ugly princess. 
So he threw his purple cape round his 
shoulders, donned his plumed hat, bade his 
queen-mother farewell, mounted a coal- 
black steed, and rode swiftly away in quest 
of the Enchanted Land.’’ 

‘‘ Didn’t he buckle on his sword? ” the 


Of a Child. 71 

boy suddenly asked, sitting up with an in- 
quiring face. 

I beg your pardon, indeed he did. — And 
for days and weeks and months he searched 
for the dream-land and the Princess Love, 
scouring countless countries of the earth, 
scanning every passing maiden’s face. And 
ever and anon he would inquire of this per- 
son and that the direction to follow. Cer- 
tain ones looked grave, and said the 
way was long and the road rough. Others 
said that there was no such land, and 
laughed him to scorn. Yet he was not dis- 
couraged, and he went on, and on, and on, 
from place to place, for many weary days; 
but never had he been able to obtain even 
a glimpse of the mystical land. 

“ One day he stopped to rest by a small 
stream that flowed through a meadow. He 
was tired and heartsick, and he rested his 
head against the cool grasses. Presently 
a young maiden came tripping along, sing- 
ging a blithe song. Her voice was very 
melodious. She was but a young girl of 
poverty, the daughter of the people, clad 
simply in a coarse gown, and having 


72 


For the Honor 


neither stockings nor shoes. On her 
breast gleamed a pure white rose. 

‘ Little maiden/ Prince Trueheart said, 
' can you tell me which road leads to the 
Enchanted Land? ’ 

‘‘ She was silent and shook her head. 

‘‘ ‘ But the rose/ he cried, ‘ where did you 
find it?’ 

And the maiden replied, ‘ Come, and I 
will show you.’ 

‘‘ Then she took him by the hand and 
they went on together. The journey was 
through a pleasant wood, with great pines 
towering above, whose branches were filled 
with birds of brilliant plumage, and every- 
thing was very bright. Sometimes they 
heard music, and they stopped and danced 
together. Sometimes they came to deep 
rivers, and they sailed upon the silvery 
waters, singing happy songs. Sometimes 
they rested by the wayside, and ate the wild 
berries. Sometimes the air grew cold, and 
the prince wrapped his purple cloak round 
the chilly maiden. At length they came, all 
too soon, to the end of the pleasant wood. 
And now a lofty gate confronted them. 


Of a Child. 


73 

The young girl passed through the en- 
trance and the prince followed her. 

She paused beside a mighty rose bush. 
' Here is where I found the flower/ she 
whispered softly. 

‘‘ He gazed round him with a heavy heart. 
The place was a desert bleak and barren. 

‘‘ ' Alas ! ’ he exclaimed, ‘ this is not the 
Enchanted Land. It is desolate and miser- 
able here. Where are the flowers and 
grasses, the blue sky, and the glowing 
lakes? Where is the Princess Love, the 
embodiment of the flowers?’ 

‘‘ And then he looked at the young girl 
who stood before him with drooping head. 
A tear fell from her eye and rested on the 
rose. 

Prince Trueheart touched the bowed 
head of the maiden. She raised her face, 
and he saw for the first time that she was 
beautiful. 

‘“Why do you weep?’ he said gently. 

“ She lifted her soft dove-like eyes to his, 
and lo! as he gazed into them, a great joy 
passed over him; for mirrored in those 
beaming eyes the Enchanted Land dawned 


74 


For the Honor 


upon him, brighter and more ethereal than 
he had ever pictured it. 

How blue the sky! how fragrant the air! 
how green the grass! how sweet the flow- 
ers! how glowing the lakes! how alluring 
the music! how weird and heavenly it was! 

A subtle perfume stole on the air and a 
mist came before his eyes. 

When his vision cleared, an exquisite 
young being, graceful and stately as a 
lily, stood by his side, in gold-embroidered 
robes, whose tender eyes were as blue as 
the forget-me-not, whose hair floated round 
her, yellow as the jonquil, with the fra- 
grance of the violet; whose brow and neck 
and arms were white as the snowdrop, and 
the delicate blush of the rose was on her 
cheeks, the crimson dye of the carnation 
on her lips. 

‘‘ He clasped the maiden’s trembling 
hands, and drew her toward him in passion- 
ate ecstasy. ' It is the Princess Love,’ he 
cried, and he drank deeply of the cup of 
happiness.” 

Marmion paused a moment, bent his 
head close to the boy’s, and concluded 


Of a Child. 


75 


softly, with a smile, ‘‘ It has ofttimes been 
whispered by the fairy flowers that Prince 
Trueheart and the Princess Love were wed 
and dwelt happily forever after in the En- 
chanted Land.” 

There was a look of puzzled wonderment 
in the child’s eyes for a brief period, as if he 
did not grasp the full import of the story, 
then he folded his little hands together and 
sighed contentedly: ‘‘ That was a very nice 
story. A very nice one. I never heard it 
before. And I suppose,” he added ear- 
nestly, “ after they got married Prince 
Trueheart went back and cut his father’s 
head off and brought his mother to the En- 
chanted Land, didn’t he? ” 

Really, Jim, I don’t know.” Marmion 
looked soberly into the child’s questioning 
eyes. “ It’s a pretty serious thing to cut off 
a person’s head, and probably the prince 
was too good to do that. And I hardly 
think the old king would let the queen go, 
anyway.” 

‘‘ Why couldn’t the prince charge up to 
the castle some dark night on his coal- 


76 


For the Honor 


black steed, and steal his mother away? If 
the king offered any existence with his cud- 
gel, it wouldn't be wrong for Prince True- 
heart to cut his head off with his sword. 
Anyhow, that's the way they do in all the 
fairy stories I ever heard.'^' 

It would be more interesting that way, 
for a fact," Marmion responded, smiling. 

I fancy more according to Grimm. If my 
memory serves me right, cudgels and 
swords were shining lights in those days." 

‘‘ Do you know any more stories? " 

‘‘No, I don’t believe I can think of any 
more just now. The next time you come 
over, though. I'll tell you a great long one, 
and I’ll make it good and bloodthirsty for 
your majesty." 

“ What's bloodthirsty? ’’ 

Marmion laughed good - naturedly. 
“ Wait and see. I'll explain that the next 
time you come to see me, you little interro- 
gation boy." 

At that instant someone was heard call- 
ing in a high-ringing voice. 

The child looked confused and startled. 
“That’s Bertha," he stammered; “she’s 


Of a Child. 


77 


calling me. She was talking to Tom, and T 
wiggled under the fence. You know, Tm 
not allowed to step outside the yard. But 
you can come and see me, if you want to/’ 
he said, with a return of his former dignity. 

Walk right in the gate. Tom ’ll open it 
for you. Tom’s the coachman, and Ber- 
tha’s ” 

Again the penetrating call; this time 
louder, and mixed with fear and anger. 

The boy listened a moment. I’m not 
afraid of Bertha,” he said bravely, his sweet 
voice trembling. 

Of course not,” Marmion responded 
vaguely, watching him as he prepared to 
depart. 

“ Not even a weenty bit afraid of her,” 
he continued. But it makes something 
inside me hurry up. I wonder what it is. 
Tom’s terribly afraid of Bertha, he says he’s 
all broke up and loses his wits every time 
he sees her, so I guess he’s afraid all right.” 
He picked up his red cap and moved swiftly 
toward the door. At this point he turned 
quickly, bowed with his hand on his heart 
and his brown ringlets in his eyes. Good- 


78 For the Honor Of a Child. 


by, good-by,’’ he cried; and in a flash Don 
Santiago Laurence Lamadrid was gone, 
and Marmion was alone. 

Alone with hideous doubts and fears. 
Did Margaret love him? Around this 
thought all others whirled in endless con- 
fusion. He had sacrificed the greatest 
thing on earth! — the only thing! Every- 
thing else was worthless! Love was su- 
preme! Merciful heaven, how dark the 
world had grown ! Margaret unhappy and 
he unable to go to her! Why, the miser- 
able conventionalities of this life could not 
hold them apart! He would batter down 
the doors of the great stone house! He 
would take her and fly to some unknown 
part of the earth! Ah, what a heaven! 
There was no happiness in the world with- 
out her. The years before them were too 
short to tell her how dear, how very dear, 
she was to him! What matter the frail 
opinions of this perishable earth! What 
matter anything, for that matter! Some 
day he would be dust, and she would be 
dust, and an unbroken dreamless sleep 
would be theirs. 


FRAGMENT IV. 


ENTERTAINING ANGELS. 

But he did not batter down the doors of 
Margaret’s home, nor did he fly with her to 
an unknown land; neither did Don Santi- 
ago Laurence Lamadrid come again. 
Whether through the fickleness of child- 
hood or he had been forbidden to come, 
was a matter of conjecture to Marmion. 
Before the coming of the child, he had re- 
solved to go, like a rational being, and call 
upon Mrs. Lamadrid, for the sake of their 
old friendship. If she had forgotten it, or 
no longer desired to continue it, why it 
would be speedily dropped; but now he was 
filled with perplexity and doubt. Things 
were very complicated; his mind was in a 
state of chaos. Not for one instant could 
he forget the child’s words. Mrs. Marmion 
had been detained in George’s home, and 


79 


8o 


For the Honor 


would, in all likelihood, be there for some 
time. He longed to see her and take 
her into his confidence. He had just 
finished reading a letter from her — a 
long letter, filled with a graphic ac- 
count of the sick baby, interspersed with 
many minor details of dear George’s house- 
hold. He sincerely wished he could be 
as interested in the affairs of his broth- 
er’s house as he was in the affairs of the 
one across the way. 

It was a beautiful Sunday morning. The 
day was as peaceful and calm as Marmion 
was restless and miserable. He unfolded 
the paper, read for a brief space, then tossed 
it aside. Up and down the room he walked 
with a quick, impatient stride, occasionally 
stopping at the window, a heavy frown on 
his stern face. He lighted a cigar and 
puffed at it a few times, only to let it die into 
darkness. He sat down by the oak desk, 
opened the lid, took out paper, and started 
a letter; but after writing a few lines he tore 
it into shreds, threw it into the waste bas- 
ket, and rose from the chair, uttering an 
exclamation of disgust. 


Of a Child. 


8i 


‘‘ I must get out of here,” he muttered, 
or I shall go mad.” He went from the 
library into the hall. It was a cozy place, 
furnished with a few chairs, a low divan, a 
large clock, and a broad, high hat-stand. 
He stopped in front of the hat-stand and 
raised his eyes: he laughed softly when he 
confronted his white face in the mirror. 

Suddenly, like a flash of lightning, he re- 
membered his mother’s words, “ She at- 
tends the Episcopal Cathedral regularly.” 
Why hadn’t he recalled them before? 

In an instant his hat was on his head, 
and he passed from the porch down the 
front steps, hastening toward the church, 
which was only a short distance away. As 
he drew near, the deep tones of the organ 
pealed forth, heralding the fact that service 
had already begun. He sprang up the 
broad stone steps, paused a moment at the 
entrance, then entered the church, and was 
shown a seat in a pew about halfway back 
from the chancel. 

His eyes roved round the interior of the 
pink-stone structure, so sacred and impres- 
sive. He saw dimly the soft, shadowy 


82 


For the Honor 


angel-faces, glorifying the Gothic windows, 
the stately pews, filled with a fashionable 
throng of human beings, the white-robed 
minister, with kindly countenance, and, 
hovering over the whole, the mellow notes 
of the great organ as they ascended and de- 
scended, lending to frail humanity, for a 
brief space, at least, the ‘‘ peace that pass- 
eth all understanding.” 

And very near him — so near that he 
might have touched them with his hand — 
were Margaret and little Jim. He watched 
them with intense interest. No part of 
that perfect picture was lost upon him. 

Margaret was clad in a handsome dress, 
fashioned from soft black fabric, embroid- 
ered in shimmering violets, exquisitely 
wrought and colored. She wore no orna- 
ments, none save a bunch of fragrant vio- 
lets, caught in the folds of her bodice. 

The child was dressed in white; his soft, 
full shirt, jaunty Bolero jacket, short knee- 
breeches, and heavy-fringed sash, knotted 
at his side, were spotless. Grace and dis- 
tinction, as heretofore, were written over all 
his small body. He was very quiet, and 


Of a Child. 


83 


followed the service with Margaret as he 
Istood on the seat beside her, holding on^e 
[side of the prayer-book, and turning the 
pages as directed by her eyes, 
i Margaret’s figure was half-turned as she 
stood in the pew, and the arm of the boy 
was around her waist. Marmion’s eyes 
grew dim as he gazed at her pale, lovely 
face, sadder but more beautiful than in her 
girlhood days. 

It was at the close of a hymn that the 
boy turned and saw him ; a radiant smile of 
‘ recognition flew to his face, and he forgot 
completely his surroundings and the so- 
lemnity of the place. ‘‘ It’s my friend, 
mother dear,” he exclaimed joyously; 
“ look back and see.” A suppressed smile 
went round the church, and for an instant 
Don Santiago Laurence Lamadrid was the 
cynosure of every eye. Margaret flushed, 
and looked reprovingly at him. 

When they sat down she whispered 
something to him; to which he responded 
by gravely nodding. Later he adroitly 
drew her face down and kissed it; but for 
the remainder of the time he was as quiet as 


84 


For the Honor 


a mouse. Toward the end of the sermon, 
notwithstanding that he bravely endeav- 
ored to sit in dignified silence and keep his 
heavy eyes open, he was compelled to suc- 
cumb, and, finally, his drowsy head rested i 
on Margaret's arm, and remained there un- 
til the pealing organ announced the close of 
service. 

Margaret did not join the crowd immedi- 
ately, but remained seated till the greater 
part of the congregation had passed out. 

She smoothed the child's hair, arranged 
his silk sash, and after waiting a few min- 
utes, they started down the aisle together. 

Then it was she saw Marmion, who was 
standing near the door, hat in hand. 
For a second their eyes met. Margaret's 
face colored, and uncertain lights were play- 
ing in her deep eyes. 

“ Margaret — Mrs. Lamadrid," he said, 
holding out his hand as she stopped near 
him, but perhaps you have forgotten 
me? " 

She put her hand into his, and her red 
lips parted in the old frank smile he remem- 
bered so well. 


Of a Child. 


^5 


Forgotten you! How little you under- 
Itand me. I am glad, so glad to see 
fou, Fax,” she said, meeting his intent 
jaze. 

Her manner was indeed that of the 
irm-hearted, impulsive Margaret he had 
own in the past. 

This is my gentleman, mother,” Jim 
d proudly, as Marmion bent over and 
sssed his hand, 
i Margaret laughed. 

I Well, you’re brave to acknowledge the 




jwnership, I must admit,” Marmion an- 
Iwered, smiling. 


‘‘ He has taken a great fancy to you,” 
taid Margaret. 

! Why haven’t you been over to see me 
igain?” Marmion asked, looking into the 
child’s face. 

i Margaret appeared troubled, and the boy 
^as confused for a moment. Presently he 
laid evasively, ‘‘ I’m coming some day.” 

That’s good news,” Marmion answered 
briefly. He realized that something had 
happened to mar for little Don Santiago 
Laurence Lamadrid the pleasure of that 


? 


86 For the Honor 

memorable day; so he said no more on the 
subject. 

At Marmion’s suggestion they sat down^ 
in some chairs that were standing in the 
rear of the church, not far from the en- 
trance. The child evidently did not care to 
prolong the conversation; his manner 
seemed a trifle discomposed. He walked 
softly up the aisle and stood with rapt face 
and folded arms, contemplating the golden 
cross, which rested on the altar: occasion- 
ally his eyes wandered to the organist, who 
was marking the places for the evening 
service. 

'' What a beautiful boy you have, Mar- 
garet! I don’t think I ever saw such a 
striking child. Why, he walks like he 
owned the earth ! ” 

“Ah! he is beautiful,” she responded 
fondly, glancing in the direction of the 
child. “ I could not live without my boy.” 

“ I scarcely realize you are his mother, 
though ; it seems odd to me that you should 
be anyone’s mother. I don’t think I ever 
could realize the fact if he weren’t a verita- 
ble pocket-edition of you.” 


Of a Child. 


87 


I’m sure you’re mistaken about the re- 
semblance,” she responded. ‘‘ But he is a 
very substantial little fact, I assure you ; and 
it seems to me as if I have always been his 
mother. I can’t think of a separate ex- 
istence.” A bright, musing smile broke 
over her face. 

‘‘ Why do you smile, Margaret? ” 

‘‘ I’m thinking what a lot of questions he 
will have to ask me about that cross when 
we go home. He has never been so near 
the altar before. He is such an inquisi- 
tive little fellow, and some of his questions 
are appalling.” 

I can imagine,” Marmion said dryly. 

“ That is one reason,” she added, ‘‘ why 
I have not told him much about religion. 
I knew he would puzzle his brain over it to 
no purpose. It is only recently that I’ve 
been bringing him to church ; everything is 
quite novel to him.” 

‘‘ And to me too,” Marmion said, laugh- 
ingly. 

'' How natural it seems to see you. Fax; 
and what centuries since we parted. Ah, 
we are growing old. And yet/’ she con- 


88 For the Honor 

tinned, after a pause, ‘‘ you are not greatly 
changed.” 

‘‘ Nor you,” he said, smiling. 

** You look,” she said, “ graver and more 
sunburned ; and yet, though it sounds para- 
doxical, I fancy you are somewhat paler, 
but your eyes — they are the same.” 

And my heart,” he answered straight- 
forwardly. 

‘‘ Then you are still loyal tO' your old 
friends,” said she, lifting her lashes. 

To my old friend,” he said, correcting 
her. ‘‘ I am loyal to you, Margaret; there 
is nothing on this earth I would not do for 
you.” 

A sad smile hovered round Margaret’s 
mouth. I am grateful to you,” she an- 
swered softly. There are so few true 
friends on this changeable earth, so very 
few. One cannot value them too highly. 
How long have you been home, Fax, and 
where have you been all these years — and 
are you married?” 

Your questions are quickly answered,” 
he said. ‘‘ I have been home three weeks, 
I have been in Mexico all these years, and 
am not married — not even in love.” 


Of a Child. 


89 


Adamantine as ever,” she laughed 
softly. Then she looked at him earnestly. 
Have you been successful? ” 

‘‘ I haven’t set the world on fire, but I’ve 
made a living,” he answered simply. 

Do you like Mexico? ” 

‘‘ In some ways I like it very much ; in 
others I do not. The winters are delight- 
ful, and at the present time there are more 
opportunities to make money than in the 
United States. On the other hand, the 
long, hot summers, enervating and debili- 
tating in the extreme, are exceedingly try- 
ing; at the same time, I very much dislike 
the diseases peculiar to the natives, and, in 
addition, am prejudiced against the debased 
currency of the country; but that is a long 
story.” 

He paused; his eyes were fixed absently 
on the floor, his mind did not rest on what 
he was saying; he was striving to think of 
a way to gain her confidence in reference 
to her husband’s cruelty. It seemed in- 
deed a hard task, more difficult than he had 
dreamed, now that she sat beside him, a 
charming reality. 


90 


For the Honor 


They were silent for some time. Mar- 
garet’s eyes were looking down, and she 
did not see little Jim until he stood quite in 
front of Marmion. Not a trace of his for- 
mer embarrassment remained. 

Did you ever hear the angels sing? ” he 
asked ardently. 

‘‘ Not guilty, your honor,” Marmion 
laughed lightly, and put his arm round the 
boy. 

Well, there’s an angel in every one of 
those round places up there.” He pointed 
his finger grandly at the lofty pipes above 
the organ, and raised his flushed face to- 
ward them. 

At least I’m most sure there is,” he ad- 
ded, with a fine sense of honor, as he met 
Marmion’s quizzical eyes. He paused a 
moment. Sometimes they sing so loud 
it sounds like the wind blowing, and some- 
times they sing so softly you can scarcely 
hear them, and sometimes they don’t sing 
at all, and then they’re saying their prayers. 
They’re praying now.” He smiled know- 
ingly, and his voice fell to a whisper. 

Before Marmion could reply to these vis- 


Of a Child. 


91 


ionary statements, the child turned quickly 
to Margaret, and said soberly, Mother, 
may I ask that gentleman up there when 
they’re going to sing again? They have 
been praying a long, long time.” 

“Why yes, sweetheart; ask him what 
you want to. Don’t interrupt him if he is 
busy.” She raised her voice as he moved 
down the aisle toward the organ. 

“ Children do advance some of the queer- 
est ideas.” She turned her face to Mar- 
mion. “ But such thoughts cannot harm 
him, even though so unreal. He has never 
been thrown with other children; in truth 
he has been so much alone I don’t wonder 
he is a little dreamer.” 

“ Perhaps,” said Marmion, “ in this case 
it is as the child says; we have been enter- 
taining angels unaware, as we so often do in 
this life. This world is illusive from what- 
ever standpoint you look at it, and I verily 
believe an idealist is happier than a realist. 
Who can prove that the angels are not in 
the pipes? ” 

“ Oh, Fax!” 

They both laughed. 


7 


92 


For the Honor 


‘‘ But you, Margaret, what have you been 
doing since we parted? ” 

‘‘ What have I been doing? I scarcely 
know how to answer, for so many, many 
things have happened to me. I have lived 
a long time in the past eight years, I have 
traveled the wide world over.’’ 

‘‘ And you have seen everything worth 
seeing? ” he questioned. 

‘‘ I think so — yes, everything. You must 
go into the Old World if you would forget 
self. We have never been long in a place, 
never had what you might call a home. 
We were in Spain for a longer period than 
any place else; at Limon, a country seat, 
which formerly belonged to my husband’s 
father, but which is now owned by his 
brother. Mr. Lamadrid’s father was a 
Spanish gentleman. He himself is thor- 
oughly American at heart: he has spent so 
many years in this country.” 

You have made a great success of your 
life, Margaret,” he said gravely. 

‘‘ Do you think so? I’m afraid I haven’t 
accomplished as much as I should under 
the circumstances. Mr. Lamadrid is a very 


Of a Child. 


93 

generous man; I don’t think I ever knew a 
more generous one.” 

Marmion thought he detected a shade of 
hardness in her voice as she pronounced 
her husband’s name. 

‘‘ How did you happen to come home — 
here, I mean, Margaret?” 

‘‘ Oh, I was homesick! and then I always 
loved it here. And Mr. Lamadrid thought 
the mountain air would do us good. He 
gave me this house we are living in when 
we were married, you know.” 

Margaret,” Marmion said abruptly, “ I 
have something I want to say to you — 
something to ask you. I hardly know how 
to begin.” 

What is it. Fax? ” she asked sincerely. 

At that instant she chanced to glance to- 
ward the door, and her expression changed 
to marble, and her manner became as ice. 
A man of military bearing, fully six feet tall, 
towered in the church doonvay. His hair 
was coal-black, and his dark skin had a pe- 
culiar tint of ivory about it. His heavy 
black mustache was waxed and twisted, and 
the long ends were curled upward from his 


7 


94 


For the Honor 


mouth ; this, together with his brilliant dare- 
devil eyes, gave a mephistophelian expres- 
sion to his remarkable face. He did not 
say a word, he simply stood and looked at 
Margaret with scintillating eyes. 

She rose and called the boy in a strained 
voice. 

The child came toward her erect and 
smiling, but recoiled when he saw the fig- 
ure in the door. 

Don Ricardo! ” he exclaimed. 

“ Don Santiago Laurence Lamadrid ! ’’ 
a mocking voice answered. 

Margaret turned and gave her hand to 
Marmion for an instant. He clasped it 
protectingly, a smoldering flame in his 
eyes. 

The carriage is waiting, and has been 
for some time” came in cold, measured tones 
from the scornful lips of the man in the 
doorway. 

‘‘ I am so glad to have met you. Fax. I 
forgot the flight of time,” she said very low, 
as she turned from him, at the same time 
putting her arm round the boy’s shoulders. 

Td like to kiss my gentleman, mother,” 


Of a Child. 


95 

he heard an earnest little voice say as they 
passed hurriedly from the church. 

Marmion stooped and picked up a soli- 
tary violet from the floor where it had fallen 
from Margaret’s dress. He raised it to his 
lips. After a while he followed them, and 
stood on the stone steps of the church, 
watching the carriage roll grandly down 
the street, till it turned a corner and was 
lost to view. 

Another fateful day had marked his life. 
Was it really possible that he had seen Mar- 
garet, and had let her go from him without 
one word of sympathy, without the slightest 
offer of help? Why, a stranger in the 
same perilous position might have looked 
for more aid than he had given to her. 

And with each passing moment of his life 
he heard reiterated the haunting words of 
the child, and the truth of them rang in his 
heart like an alarm bell. She did not ask 
him to call — probably she could not. 
Common humanity demanded that he act, 
and now he had lost his one opportunity to 
help her. Ah, if he did not love her so ! 

He walked slowly toward his home. 


FRAGMENT V< 


THE GATE OF TEARS. 

The clock struck seven as Margaret 
Lamadrid came down the broad staircase, 
arrayed in lustrous silk of purest white, her 
neck and shoulders bare and starred with 
diamonds. 

Dinner was ever a ceremonious affair in 
the household. Indeed, it had always been 
a notable feature in the life of Ricardo 
Lamadrid. And now, nothing gave his 
selfish pride greater satisfaction than to see 
Margaret at his table, her graceful figure 
set in the magnificence he heaped upon her. 

She passed from the spacious hall into a 
room of sumptuous richness. At the cor- 
ner of the grate, his arm resting on the 
mantel, stood Lamadrid, faultlessly dressed. 
His dark clothes and immaculate linen 
served to intensify the blackness of his 

g6 


For the Honor Of a Child. 97 

hair and eyes, the heavy frowning brows, 
and the Satanic mustaches. He held a 
small bottle in his hand, which he quickly 
folded in his palm when his wife entered 
the room. 

As she came toward him, queenly and 
slight in her rustling dress, he raised his 
head and looked at her critically, his eyes 
wandering slowly from the sparkling gems 
in her hair, to the toe of her delicate bro- 
caded slipper. 

‘‘ You are very beautiful to-night, Senora, 
the devil can find no flaw in you.” 

“ Thank you,” she responded, with a cold 
smile. ‘‘ You are kind indeed.” 

‘‘ Why is it, I wonder, that beggars walk 
like queens, and queens waddle like 
ducks?” He smiled sardonically, and 
showed his big white teeth. 

Margaret looked at him as if he had not 
spoken. 

‘‘ Shades of Boreas ! but you are cold, my 
beauty; cold as the snow on the summit of 
Mont Blanc! A marble woman without 
a heart, cold-blooded and unfeeling, hard as 

granite.” 

> 


98 


For the Honor 


If it were only true; if it were only 
true! ’’ said Margaret under her breath. 

It is true. You are heartless.’’ 

‘‘ I am what you have made me.” 

‘‘ You do me a great honor,” he sneered, 
bowing low in derision. He paused, and 
uncorked the bottle in his hand; he raised it 
to his lips. 

“ Ricardo, do not take that,” she cried 
quickly, stepping forward. 

‘‘ Do not take what? ” he asked, glaring 
at her fiercely. 

She looked him straight in the eyes. 
‘‘ Opium,” she answered. It was the first 
time she had breathed the word, although 
for months she had known his secret. 

Opium,” he said contemptuously. 

What are you talking about? I never 
took the stuff in my life. It is medicine for 
my head — it aches like bedlam.” He swal- 
lowed the pellets. ‘‘ Opium! ” he repeated, 
with a low, disagreeable laugh. ‘‘ That’s a 
curious thing for you to say.” 

Margaret did not answer; she turned and 
walked across the room, and sat down be- 
fore the piano. After a moment she 


Of a Child. 


99 


started to play, with exquisite expression, 
the second movement of Chopin's weird 
and melancholy Marche Funebre. At 
her thrilling touch, low and penetrating, 
Lamadrid drew a quick, short breath. 

“ Stop! he thundered. ‘‘ Stop! or I will 
break every key on the piano. It is the tor- 
tures of the infernal regions. It drives me 
mad, and I won’t have it.” 

She stopped playing and sat silent, her 
hands clasped in her lap, her eyes cast 
down. 

His piercing eyes rested immovably upon 
the figure of his wife; and the longer they 
dwelt upon it, the fiercer burned the anger 
in their glowing depths. Her very attitude, 
blended as it was with sorrow and reproach, 
seemed to infuriate him the more. For he 
loved her in his own cruel, miserable way, 
and her heart was responseless to him. 

Strike up something lively, something 
with life in it. Do you hear? The Devil’s 
Glide, Maniacs’ Reveries, Waltz of Fire and 
Brimstone.” 

He laughed brutally. “ Something in- 
spiring, you know.” 


100 


For the Honor 


“ I cannot,” she said in a low voice, tense 
with feeling. “ I cannot play such things. 
Your language is insulting.” 

“ No, not insulting,” he said jeeringly. 
“ Only expressive, that’s all. But why 
can’t you play such things?” 

“ It is an utter impossibility; you know I 
cannot.” 

“ But why can’t you? Have all the 
saints and devils entered into your finger- 
tips? When a person is bent on pleasure 
it is deucedly unpleasant to listen to funeral 
marches and dirges.” 

She sighed heavily, but made no reply. 
She had grown accustomed to his views on 
the subject of music; she had heard them 
too often during the past years not to know 
them by heart, and rarely touched the 
piano; it seemed to act as a medium of 
strife between them. 

“ Answer me,” he commanded. ‘‘ Why 
can’t you play something spirited?” 

She rose to her feet, and turned her proud 
beautiful face to him, the diamonds on her 
neck glowing restlessly as they rose and 
fell with the quickening of her breath. Still 


Of a Child. 


lOI 


she gave no reply. The two confronted 
each other in silence, a silence charged with 
dark forebodings. He broke the ominous 
pause. ‘‘ Who was the man in the church? ” 

‘‘ I think I have already answered that 
question several times: an old friend.” 

‘‘An old friend!” he repeated in bitter 
derision. 

“ Yes, an old friend.” 

“ Am I supposed to believe such a lie as 
that? I beg your pardon,” he sneered 
ironically, “ I should say falsehood, for 
your delicate ears. Do all your old friends 
look at you with white faces and burning 
eyes, as this smooth-faced rascal did? No, 
I say! No, a thousand times,” he cried, 
“You cannot blind me; he is your lover.” 
He lifted his brilliant eyes, like search- 
lights in their piercing expression, and 
fixed them on her face. 

“ Ricardo, do not speak so; you are not 
yourself. Fairfax Marmion is an old friend 
of mine, that is all. He is associated with a 
happy time in my life.” 

“ Happy time in your life! What happi- 
ness was there in your plebeian life before 


102 


For the Honor 


I raised you from the mud and slime of the 
street? And now you seek your base 
level by indulging in secret meetings with 
your lover, — meetings held in a church, — 
for the express purpose of using your reli- 
gion, that smooth compound of the Evil 
One, as a cloak to cover your sins? Deny 
it — you dare not!’’ 

'' But I do deny it,” she said, looking 
calmly in his eyes. I deny it most em- 
phatically. He is my friend, and a gentle- 
man.” 

Every dark emotion leaped to his pas- 
sionate face. You shall not speak to him 
again.” 

‘‘ I make no rash promises,” said Mar- 
garet coldly. 

‘‘Then I will kill him!” 

“You are a coward!” She drew her 
slender body up to its full height. 

“ Perhaps,” he said exasperatingly, 
“ but cowards have done just such things 
before.” He paused a moment, then said 
hotly, “ And, by heaven. I’ll kill him if I 
live long enough ! ” 

Her face paled as she walked across the 


Of a Child. 


103 

I room. She stood with one hand resting on 
I the piano. 

He sank upon a low couch and piled 
the soft cushions in a great mass at his 
elbow. You would like a divorce, Mar- 
garita?’’ He asked the question with 
peculiar significance. 

She raised her startled eyes, and, for a 
moment, a pink glow was on her white 
cheeks. 

He shrugged his shoulders and smiled 
scornfully. “ Yes, my Margarita, I know 
your innermost thoughts. You would like 
a divorce, with a slice of my fortune and the 
child. But no power on earth can give it 
to you. Do you hear? No power in 
heaven or on earth. Try it, Margarita.” 
He laughed insultingly and made a quick 
gesture with his hand. ‘‘ Did you ever 
stop to think what a helpless, miserable, 
God-forsaken thing a woman is, anyway? 
If you should raise your hand against me, 
and cry to the world for protection, what 
would happen? Nothing less than this: A 
friend of mine, a man without a conscience 
and a king among liars, and whose honor 


104 For the Honor 

is not beyond the price of rubies and gold, 
will tell a pretty story to the court of you 

and your amours with ’’ He waved 

his hand indifferently. “ What matter the 
name? ’Tis an easy task to prove a 
woman’s shame with such a witness.” 

A look of horror crept over Margaret’s 
face; she made no answer; she did not even 
make a movement; she felt her body 
was turning to stone. 

“ The court would then sift the matter, 
and, upon examination, would find that I 
had not failed in my duty toward you, but, 
on the contrary, had lavished my worldly 
goods on you. Why waste words ; you can 
see how it would end, can’t you? A di- 
vorce would be granted without the shadow 
of a doubt — but to me, and with the custody 
of the child. The papers would teem with 
the sensation! Spicy reading for your son 
at some future day! No, Margarita, be- 
cause I am fool enough to love you, I will 
never set you free. And because you love 
the child you will never risk my good name 
— aye, my own, in very surety — between 
the devil and the deep sea.” He laughed 


Of a Child. 


loS 

aloud, in derisive amusement. Then the 
tone of his voice changed to a peculiar soft- 
ness. You do love the child, don’t you? ” 
Better than my life,” she said, in a low, 
fearful voice. 

‘‘ Better than the man in the church? ” 

She did not answer. 

“Why didn’t you marry him?” He 
looked at her, a cruel smile playing round 
his mouth. 

A gleam of hatred sprang to her eyes. 
“ Because he did not ask me,” she re- 
sponded unguardedly. 

“Oh! you don’t mean it? What a pa- 
thetic story of unrequited love! And now, 
when it is too late, and you are bought by 
the highest bidder, and are the property of 
another, he longs for the moon? Ha, ha! 
That is a likely story. Whom do you think 
will believe it? I will tell a more plausible 
one than that. You would not have him; 
you were looking for bigger game, and 
found it.” 

He breathed heavily. His face was gray 
with fury. The room became oppressively 
quiet. 


io6 For the Honor 

‘‘ Margarita, come here.” His voice was 
low, like velvet, and she felt the spell of his 
evil magnetism surge over her. “ Come 
here,” said he again, with piercing eyes 
upon her face. 

She advanced slowly and stood by his 
side. 

He then reached back deliberately, took 
a pistol from his hip-pocket, and held it 
where she could see it. It was pearl and 
gold, beautifully inlaid, and had the appear- 
ance of a handsome toy as he held it in his 
hand. He studied the engraving on the 
handle attentively. 

‘‘ A small affair for honor,” he said 
musingly, turning it over and looking 
thoughtfully at it. “ Yes, a small affair, 
my queen, and yet, in my hand, a deadly 
weapon. With one ball I can stop his 
heart beating, silence his voice, and close 
his cursed eyes forever: with another I can 
destroy your fatal beauty and make it food 
for worms.” Quick as a flash he held the 
pistol up and pointed it at her heart. 
“ And, by heaven. Til kill you both! ” 

Every vestige of color faded from her 


Of a Child. 


107 


i face; she stood rigid with fear before the 
half-crazed man. 

'‘Ricardo! oh, Ricardo! For your own 
sake!” His skin was ghastly and drawn. 

At the sound of her voice he dropped the 
pistol at his side. He laid it upon the 
divan, and came quickly toward her. His 
arms closed round her, and he held her as 
in a vise; his hot quick breath was on her 
hair and white shoulders. " You are 
mine!” he whispered fiercely. "Yes, 
mine!” His voice sank yet lower. His 
soul first! ” 

His actions and words were so strange 
and peculiar that Margaret’s heart was full 
of dread. 

5 " Ricardo,” she said soothingly, as if 

speaking to a child, " you are not well. Sit 
I down, and I will get something for your 
nerves.” 

He sank in a chair, weak and listless; he 
gave no answer. 

She picked up the small revolver and car- 
ried it over to a cabinet filled with choice 
Venetian glass and rare curios; unlocked it, 
and placed the weapon upon the upper 


io8 For the Honor 

shelf. Locking the glass door, she clasped 
the key in her hand. 

When she turned, three men in evening 
dress were entering the room, and her hus- 
band was shaking hands with them; to 
outward appearances himself once more. 
There was a freedom about the manners of 
the guests that she did not like, and they 
lacked polish. 

Margaret’s outstretched hand met them 
with freezing hauteur, notwithstanding the 
annoyance it caused Ricardo Lamadrid, 
who looked at her from the sides of his 
eyes in a way that was not pleasant to con- 
template; but she met it unflinchingly. 

Soon dinner was announced, and they 
passed into the cool, fragrant dining-room. 
The table was massed with jars of beautiful 
roses and covered with massive silver and 
glittering glass. 

Margaret sat at the table with a rose- 
glow on her face. She ate but little. She 
was feverishly excited as she talked and 
joined in the toasts. She was too well bred 
not to take part to a certain extent in the 
entertainment of their guests, and wine in 


Of a Child. 


109 


a moderate quantity was not distasteful to 
her. There was always an endless amount 
of wine served at dinner in the Lamadrid 
household; nevertheless, to-night, as the 
dinner advanced, and Margaret noted the 
empty decanters and saw the champagne 
glasses filled and refilled and tossed off, one 
after another, in endless succession, her 
heart sank with apprehension. Ricardo 
Lamadrid, in his cups, was not a pleasant 
personage; liquor to him was as a red flag 
flaunted in his face, and during his revels 
he was the personification of profane- 
ness. 

As they drank deeper they became more 
boisterous and noisy, until, finally, Mar- 
garet sat white and silent, looking at them 
with disgust and repugnance. 

One of the men rose in his chair and sang 
a few lines from a drinking song in a loud, 
discordant voice; and .when he finished, 
he tossed the delicate glass — filled to the 
brim with champagne — high in the air. To 
the table it fell with a ring, broken in a 
hundred fragments, the sparkling wine fast- 
spreading over the snowy linen. Loud 


no 


For the Honor 


laughter and enthusiastic clapping of hands 
greeted this act. 

The man at Mr. Lamadrid’s right sprang 
to his feet, his glass held high in the air, 
and cried aloud in a tipsy voice, To the 
health of the son and heir! ” 

Lamadrid’s relentless black eyes rested 
upon his wife’s glass as she turned it in her 
hand. 

‘‘Where is Don Santiago?” he ques- 
tioned, in a loud voice, as the glasses were 
being refilled. 

“ He is asleep,” Margaret answered, 
softly setting her glass beside her plate. 

“ Have him brought to the table,” he 
commanded briefly. 

“ He is asleep, and cannot come,” she re- 
sponded decisively. 

“H-m! cannot!” he exclaimed inso- 
lently, his heavy brows knitted in a dark 
frown. “ I would like to know who is 
master here? Have him brought to the 
table immediately, or I’ll fetch him my- 
self.” 

“ But I do not wish him to come. He is 
not accustomed to be up at night, and — 


Of a Child. m 

and the wine,” she faltered, with trembling 
lips. 

‘‘The wine! What the devil’s the wine 
got to do with it? Don Santiago Laurence 
Lamadrid at once!” he thundered sav- 
agely. 

Margaret was mute. An expression of 
doubt and fear was in her face, but she 
gave no order to the servant, who awaited 
her word. She was thinking of the small 
revolver that lay peacefully in the cabinet. 
She knew almost for a certainty, from his 
actions in the past, that even in his de- 
bauched condition he would do no bodily 
harm to the child. And yet what might he 
not do if she opposed him! She had always 
dreaded this selfsame thing; it was now 
face to face with her. 

Suddenly he arose from the table, threw 
his napkin on the floor, and, with an oath, 
strode angrily from the room. 

After what seemed to Margaret an in- 
terminably long time, and yet, in reality, 
was but more than a minute, he came 
back bearing in his arms the child, whom 
he had wrapped in a little blue silk bath- 


112 


For the Honor 


robe, throwing it carelessly over his 
white night-clothes. He had aroused him 
roughly from a sound sleep, and the boy’s 
face, surmounted by his beautiful soft hair 
in sleepy disorder, wore a dazed and won- 
dering expression when he was brought 
into the brilliantly lighted rooms. 

“ Put me down, you bad, wicked Don Ri- 
cardo! I want my mother! ” he cried im- 
periously when he saw who held him. But 
his father clasped him tightly in his arms 
and carried him to the great sideboard, 
which stood on one side of the room, and 
set him down in the midst of the glass and 
flowers and rose-shaded candles. 

His astonished eyes wandered slowly 
around the sumptuous scene until at 
length they rested upon Margaret, whose 
sad eyes were full of unshed tears. 

But she smiled fondly, and it reassured 
him as nothing else could have done, and 
he smiled back at her, trust and faith and 
devotion shining in his face. 

‘‘ It looks like fairyland, mother dear, 
don’t it? ” he cried gayly. 

She nodded. 


Of a Child. 


113 

“ You are the beautiful fairy-queen, 
mother,’’ he said fondly. 

“ Am I, sweetheart? ” She flushed with 
pleasure at his ardent admiration. 

‘‘ Yes, and I think your dress is lovely, 
and your diamonds sparkle like everything. 
Your comb is the jeweled crown.” 

“ Oh, you funny boy,” Margaret said, 
with a laugh she could not rept-ess. 

“ I would like to put on my clothes, 
mother,” he exclaimed, his eyes suddenly 
resting on his dainty blue night-slippers. 

Presently, sweetheart,” responded Mar- 
garet, as a loud, jeering laugh from the 
men greeted this speech. 

Then Ricardo Lamadrid, with trembling 
hands and a foul oath, brought him a brim- 
ming glass of champagne, his drunken eyes 
leering as a demon’s into the flower-like 
face of his son. 

The child put his hands behind him and 
drew back with aversion. 

But Margaret looked at him, and said: 

Take it, Jim. See, love, mother has some 
too.” She smiled another reassuring 
smile; a smile^io brilliant, and yet so inde- 


II4 For the Honor 

scribably hopeless, that it seemed as if she 
smiled in the face of death. 

Lamadrid lifted the little fellow to his 
feet; and, after handing him the glass of 
wine, he returned to the table, and, grasp- 
ing his own glass with an unsteady hand, 
he proposed once again the health of Don 
Santiago Laurence Lamadrid. 

They rose in their chairs to drink the 
toast; and when the child saw Margaret 
herself standing with glass in hand, he no 
longer hesitated, nor did he seem to mind 
his neglige attire, but joined them in the 
toast in an undaunted, princely manner, that 
caused another burst of merriment from the 
men. For he stood straight as an arrow 
amid the glitter and glare of the huge 
sideboard, his blue robe falling gracefully 
from his shoulders, his handsome young 
head thrown back and held slightly to one 
side — a charming trick and to him singu- 
larly becoming. Holding the champagne 
glass in exact imitation of Margaret, he 
drank the wine with a fearless laugh. 

Soon after this, when Lamadrid and his 
boon companions were in a high state of 


Of a Child. 




confusion from the incessant guzzling of 
the different intoxicants, Margaret was en- 
abled to gather the child in her arms and 
pass unheeded from the room. It was the 
first time he had tasted wine, and it made 
him heavy with sleep; so that his tired head 
sank on Margaret's uncovered shoulder as 
she carried him up the wide staircase. 
She bore him to his white room, where 
the wainscoting and furnishings and soft 
draperies shone with dovelike lustre and in- 
nocence. 

Slipping off his little blue robe and slip- 
pers, she laid him upon the snowy bed, and 
sank noiselessly to her knees. She covered 
her face with her hands, and her form shook 
convulsively. There was no light in the 
little room save the moonbeams, and they 
stole through the thin white curtains and 
bathed the mother and child in a mellow 
halo of light. It was not until to-night that 
a despairing sense of her helpless, desper- 
ate state confronted her: not that she had 
ever had a defined hope of escape from her 
husband's brutality, but the child had never 
before witnessed the scenes that were al- 


For the Honor 


1 16 

most nightly enacted in their home, and his 
introduction to them had shocked her be- 
yond measure. 

‘‘Oh, my little one! oh, my little one! 
how can I bear it, how can I bear it? she 
whispered softly. “ I am so tired, so tired, 
my little love ; the years are so long. What 
would become of you if I were taken 
away? ’’ 

The child stirred in his sleep, and Mar- 
garet, stifling her voice, crept closer to him, 
kissing his closed eyes, his warm cheeks, 
his dimpled hands, pressing her face to his 
pretty feet, a mighty mother-love beaming 
from her fathomless eyes. 

“ Oh, God! ” she moaned, “ that we could 
both go, both rest in one grave. Better far, 
my little sweetheart! Oh, my little sweet- 
heart! 

So she knelt a long time. At length she 
grew quiet, very quiet indeed ; she then rose 
from her knees with a pale, calm face, and 
Stood looking down upon the child with a 
reverent, hushed expression. His lips were 
parted in a smile. She felt a vague danger 
hovering round her heart. Destiny, like 


Of a Child. 


117 

some wild bird of prey, seemed to be brood- 
ing near her with outspread wings. She 
felt instinctively how necessary it was to 
warn Fairfax Marmion of her husband's 
enmity, so unwittingly incurred by him. 
She understood too well the innate base- 
ness and treachery of Ricardo Lamadrid's 
nature, and knew, too, that in his present 
state of mind he would not hesitate to com- 
mit murder. 

She crossed the floor softly, and drew 
aside the draperies from the window. Her 
heart gave a bound, then stood still an in- 
stant. For Fairfax Marmion was in the 
library of his home, sitting in a large chair 
under the lighted gas jets, his hands clasped 
behind his head, his figure motionless, 
his face grave and thoughtful. Margaret 
watched him in breathless silence. What a 
target he would be! 

Presently she saw him rise to his feet and 
come leisurely toward one of the windows. 
For a moment he stood gazing meditatively 
out into the moonlight. A short time after, 
he glanced up at the window, where she 
stood, in the shadow of the room, and a 


For the Honor 


ii8 

look of ungovernable emotion passed over 
his features. Then he drew the blind down 
and shut out the tender eyes that he could 
not see. 

When Margaret turned from the window 
a new expression was on her face. She 
walked slowl}^ back to the bed, and gazed 
once more at the sleeping child. She drew 
the silk coverlet over him and kissed him 
on the mouth. She rang the bell that com- 
municated with her maid's room, and an in- 
stant after the maid rapped lightly on the 
door and entered softly. 

‘‘ He is asleep," Margaret whispered, 
holding her hand up warningly. Get me 
my cloak, Bertha, and then come and sit 
here till I return." 

She would let no one take charge of the 
child when she was at liberty. Little Jim 
and she were inseparable; in truth, they had 
been parted rarely since his birth. 

Margaret took the wrap from the girl and 
went into the hall, carefully closing the 
door of the room behind her. She leaned 
over the heavy oak balustrade and listened 
attentively. Evcr^lhing was quiet bdow, 


Of a Child. 


119 

neither loud talking nor boisterous laugh- 
ter greeted her. 

She passed quickly down the stairs and 
walked quietly to the dining-room, pausing 
a moment on the threshold. It was later 
than she thought; the place was deserted 
and in perfect order. The guests had evi- 
dently taken their departure, and the serv- 
ants had been dismissed. She went softly 
into the drawing-room and glanced hur- 
riedly round. Her husband was stretched 
at full length upon the low couch, his face 
ghastly, his breathing labored and irregu- 
lar, one arm thrown out from his body, 
the hand that rested on the soft carpet 
clasping a small bottle. Margaret stood 
erect, as if petrified, gazing at him with 
loathing and contempt. At length she 
turned from the recumbent figure, and her 
eyes sought the cabinet where she had 
placed the pistol. She drew back with sur- 
prise, then went quickly toward it. The 
heavy glass doors were shattered in a thou- 
sand pieces and the pistol had been re- 
moved. 

Margaret no longer wavered. She went 


120 


For the Honor 


into the hall, grasped her long white cloak 
with trembling hands from the back of a 
chair where she had placed it, and threw it 
hastily round her bare shoulders. There 
was no time for thought. It might be the 
one instant of her freedom. She gathered 
the rich folds of her dress in her hand, 
opened the front door, and stole like a spirit 
into the night. A tiny veil of finest gauze 
covered the face of the moon, and hid her 
golden witchery. Margaret moved on with 
a noiseless step until she stood in front of 
the Queen Anne cottage; here she paused, 
her hand upon the gate. It was only a mo- 
ment, however, before she walked swiftly 
up the stone sidewalk leading to the house, 
and knocked lightly on the door. 

Almost instantly she heard footsteps, and 
Fairfax Marmion, in a dark-blue lounging 
jacket, and with a half-smoked cigar in his 
hand, opened it and looked into the night. 
Suddenly the moon escaped from the deli- 
cate cloud that held her captive, and fear 
and consternation sprang to his eyes as he 
caught a glimpse of Margaret’s phantom- 


Of a Child. 


121 


like figure and the gleam of her burnished 
hair in the moonlight. 

‘‘ Is your mother here, Fax? ” she said 
softly. 

‘‘ No, she is at George’s.’’ 

‘‘ No matter,” she answered wearily, “ I 
must speak to you.” He did not say a 
word. He clasped her hands, drew her 
into the hall, and closed the door. 


FRAGMENT VI. 


LOVE IS A KEEN REGRET. 

Margaret leaned against the door and 
closed her eyes. 

Margaret! Margaret! What is it? ’’ he 
cried sharply. Are you ill! You are 
hurt! For God’s sake speak to me!” 

Nothing is the matter with me,” she 
said mechanically, opening her eyes and 
gazing at him in a queer, dazed way, '' I 
am all right now. I was faint for a mo- 
ment. It is nothing. No, I cannot stay,” 
she said, as he turned toward the library- 
door; ''nor can I sit down,” she added, as 
he pushed a chair toward her. " I came to 
put you on your guard — to warn you. 
Fax.” 

"To warn me!” he repeated incredu- 
lously. 


Z22 


For the Honor Of a Child. 123 

‘‘ Yes, to warn you. Your life is in dan- 
ger. I am afraid you will be shot. It 
sounds melodramatic and absurd, doesn’t 
it? But Mr. Lamadrid has been incensed 
against you ever since the day he saw us to- 
gether in the church. He has sworn to 
kill you. Love is unreasonable, you know, 
and he is so passionate and hot-headed, so 
irrational and impetuous. And how lu- 
dicrous it seems when one knows the true 
state of affairs. Is it not so? ” She looked 
at him with a bright smile. 

He felt instinctively how carefully she 
was guarding her unhappiness from him. 

Margaret,” he said, in a low, tense 
voice, I know how cruel your husband is 
to you. Let me help you if I can.” 

You know! ” she breathed. 

‘‘ Yes, little Jim told me the day he came 
to see me. He told me of the hideous tor- 
tures you have been subjected to by this 
wretch.” 

‘‘ But the child knew so little,” she whis- 
pered, with startled eyes. 

So little! In heaven’s name, what have 
you undergone? So little! Why, the 


124 


For the Honor 


words of the child are driving me mad. 
They are killing me. I have not slept since 
that day.” 

She sank to the low chair, her cloak fall- 
ing from her white throat in a mass at her 
feet; she covered her face with her hands. 

You must forget what the child said, 
Fax,” she whispered, a sob in her voice. 

‘‘ I cannot, unless you will tell me the 
words weren’t true.” 

Do not ask me. What difference does 
it make? Why should you care? Why 
should anyone care?” Her voice was low 
and bitter. 

He took a step toward her, then stood 
still. Love was on his face as he gazed 
at her in her wretched despair. She was 
so lovely in her priceless splendor, yet so 
pathetic with it all, that she seemed to him 
like an uncertain vision in a dream. A 
sharp pain contracted his heart. 

He answered resolutely: ‘‘ I care because 
I love you with all my heart and soul. 
I have loved you always. Let me help you 
for this reason, and for the sake of the 
friendship you once felt for me.” 


Of a Child. 


125 


She was silent. 

‘‘ You don't care for this cur? " he ques- 
tioned, under his breath. 

She raised her eyes to his. I do not. 
I have neither love nor respect for him. 
But this does not alter the fact that he is my 
husband, and the father of my child." For 
a moment she looked at him fixedly, a 
strange expression in her face. 

‘‘ You loved me before you went away? " 
she questioned slowly. 

‘‘ God alone knows how fondly I loved 
you then, or how immeasurable is my de- 
votion for you now. For your love I would 
give up everything in this world, and the 
hope of life beyond. I have given you my 
love entire. It is burning my heart to 
ashes." 

You loved me, Fairfax Marmion! " she 
exclaimed, her voice vibrant with feeling. 
‘‘You loved me, and did not speak! You 
loved me, and left me without a word ! You 
call that love! A man's love, perhaps — a 
woman's love, never ! " 

“ Oh, Margaret! I was a penniless dog. 
You were born for something better than I 


126 


For the Honor 


could give. The world’s choicest treasures 
were meant for such as you, nature never 
intended that you should be poor. I could 
not spoil your life; your happiness was too 
dear to me.’’ 

She sighed, and looked at him sadly. 

When I left home, Margaret, I went to 
make a fortune. I was filled with a keen 
desire to make a lot of money and return to 
you; for I hoped, yes, almost believed, that 
you were not indifferent to me. And the 
dream of my life had been to call you my 
wife. But from the first everything went 
against me. Everything I touched went to 
pieces; every step I took fate was against 
me, absolutely against me. The first few 
years were wretched ones, filled with hard- 
ships and failures, with heartaches and dis- 
appointments, at times unbearable. 

‘‘ And then one day, Margaret, I heard 
you were married, and so I gave up; 

you had slipped from me. I no longer 
cared for money. I decided that life 

wasn’t worth living, and that money 
wasn’t worth the struggle it took to 

obtain it. Shortly after, I had a po- 


Of a Child. 


127 


sition offered me. It was coupled with a 
good salary, and I accepted it. So I have 
lived and slaved, and saved a few paltry dol- 
lars. And through it all you have been the 
one woman on earth to me; nor will there 
be another; and there has never been a time 
when I would not willingly die for you.’’ 

‘‘ Fax,” she whispered, very low, I 
loved you well in those days. And what 
happy days they were! You did a cruel 
thing when you left me without one word. 
I was proud, and my heart was rejected! 
Think what that meant to me! Ah, Fax, 
you crushed me cruelly! ” 

He recoiled, as if she had struck him. 
“ Margaret, do not speak so; you are kill- 
ing me.” He looked at her with a white, 
set face. 

Love is the only thing,” she continued 
sorrowfully, “ the only thing in this sad old 
world. Everything else is nothing, noth- 
ing. What does affluence amount to? I 
am as fond of luxury as anyone in this wide 
world, and yet without love it is a hollow 
mockery. Of what moment the costly 
clothes and priceless jewels, the luxurious 


128 


For the Honor 


living-place, with its retinue of servants — 
yes, all the treasures that wealth can give, 
in comparison to what is gone. What 
would they be worth to you, Fax?” 

“ Nothing,” he said wretchedly. 

Ah, Fax! no one will ever love you bet- 
ter than I did in those days.” 

There were haggard lines around his 
mouth as he looked into her sad face. 

‘‘ Margaret, you must forgive me,” he 
cried passionately. 

I do forgive you.” 

And have you no love in your heart for 
me now? ” he asked hoarsely. 

The color faded from her face and left it 
whiter than her dress. ‘‘ It is too late now. 
I could not speak to you as I have spoken 
to-night, were that not so. We are ^far 
from our young love now. How quickly 
we grow old. Fax. Surely, time flies like 
a bird on the wing. No, it is not for my- 
self I sorrow, but for a fairer, younger, hap- 
pier Margaret.” Her clear, grave eyes met 
his. 

‘‘ Margaret, my dear, dear love — my only 
love! I see it plainly now. I have ruined 


Of a Child. 


129 


two lives. It is all my fault, darling; a hor- 
hible mistake. But, believe me, I knew 
you loved wealth, and I had absolutely 
nothing.” 

‘‘We could have gotten along some 
way,” she said pathetically. 

“ Oh, I see it clearly, Margaret! It was 
a fearful mistake, a fearful mistake.” He 
drew back a little, passing his hand before 
his face. “ I am so miserable, so unutter- 
ably wretched,” he groaned. 

She looked at him. Her eyes were dim. 

“ You must try to forget it. Fax. You 
did it for the best — for my sake. You 
^thought rd be happier, and you did not 
know how it would end.” 

“ I did not,” he answered, “ and God 
knows I have repented.” 

“ Our friendship is left,” she said, smiling 
frankly, “ is it not? ” 

“ It is, I hope. And you will let me help 
you, Margaret? I must help you. Have 
you ever thought of leaving him?” 

“ Yes, I have thought of it. Once I was 
bitterly opposed to divorces. I thought 
they were against heaven’s laws. But 


130 


For the Honor 


lately I scarcely know what to think. All 
my opinions seem to have undergone a 
change.’^ 

‘‘ It would be blasphemy to think God 
ever meant you to stay there/’ he said with 
vehemence. “ A divorce is but justice.” 

Perhaps,” she replied. ‘‘ Nevertheless, 
rd rather go away quietly; that would be 
best. But he will never consent to a sepa- 
ration of any kind; he will do some dread- 
ful thing first. Oh, you don’t know him! ” 
She clasped her hands tightly, and her 
voice was filled with desperation. My 
life is a hideous nightmare. Think what 
little Jim sees and hears every day. It 
cuts me to the heart. I don’t know what 
to do. And yet,” she added sadly, her 
voice growing low and natural, “ if I had 
been a different woman he might have been 
a better man.” 

‘‘ Never! ” he exclaimed quickly. “ Why, 
he is so base his own child dislikes him.” 

‘‘Don’t!” She raised her hand, as if to 
ward off a blow. “ I cannot bear it.” 

“ Margaret,” said Marmion, in a firm 
voice, “ listen to me. Let me go to a law- 


Of a Child* 


131 

yer tomorrow, and lay the matter before 
him. I am sure he will show you how a 
\ separation can be obtained. You owe this 
1 to yourself and child. It has gone too far; 
:i for any reason whatever you are wrong to 
i bear such treatment.’’ 

I She shook her head sadly, and rose to 
her feet. 

‘‘ Don’t you think I am right, Mar- 
1 garet?” 

‘‘You don’t understand. Fax. He will 
never, under any conditions, agree to a di- 
; vorce. You don’t know his disposition.” 

“ He will be compelled to.” 

“ Ah! you do not know him. Fax.” She 
I smiled oddly. “ He will stop at nothing. I 
i must not anger him.” She turned from 
Marmion, and walked toward the chair 
where he had thrown her cloak. She 
picked it up and started toward the door. 

He was burning with suppressed emo- 
tion. The fear of losing her goaded him 
to madness, and his prisoned love burst 
forth tumultuously and carried him off his 
feet. His habitual composure was gone, 
and he sprang toward her and drew her to 


132 


For the Honor 


him fiercely. ‘‘You are mine, now, Mar- 
garet! Nothing can ever take you from 
me. Mine forever and forever; yes, 
through all eternity! You are mine before 
there was a world, and you will be mine 
when it has passed away.’’ 

As she strove to draw herself away from 
him, he held her yet more tightly. 

“ No, you can never go back, never leave 
me again! I dare not let you go; the risk 
is too great! Heaven only knows how my 
heart is starving for you, darling! I love 
your eyes, your hair, your dear, dear hands! 
Oh, I love everything about you, Margaret! 
How can I ever make you understand how 
I love you? ” 

His arms relaxed, and she drew back 
from him, and put her hands over her face. 
He pressed nearer and bent his head close 
to hers, his words coming like a flame: 

“ This very night, my love, we will go. 
We are still young, there are years of hap- 
piness before us, the past is gone forever; 
that we cannot help ; but the present and all 
the days to come are our own, if we only 
take them.” 


Of a Child. 


133 

And still she was silent, her face hidden 
by her hands. 

He could hear his heart beating and feel 
his temples throbbing. The diamonds on 
her fingers flashed yet more brightly; for 
her hands were trembling with agitation. 

“ I cannot live without you ! Oh, Mar- 
garet, I have suffered so ! ’’ he pleaded, a 
sudden soft sadness in his voice. It is 
life and death to me. Only say that you 
love me ! Surely such love as yours can- 
not be dead! ” 

She stepped back, and, raising her head, 
stood looking at him, pity, sorrow, and re- 
proach blended in her pallid face. 

‘‘ No, I do not love you,” she said slowly. 
“ The time for love is past and gone ; I have 
sterner things to think of.” 

Her words cut like a knife, and brought 
him back to earth. His dark eyes were 
fixed on her with eloquent despair. 

‘‘I am mad! Forgive me. I am un- 
worthy to breathe the same air as you. I 
despise myself as much as you do- me.” 

‘‘ I do not despise you. You were mis- 
taken about mxy feelings, that was all.” 


134 


For the Honor 


‘Her voice was cold and distant, and he 
felt as if he had never heard it before. He 
knew, too, that he had wounded her irrep- 
arably. He dropped his head wearily, 
walked to the end of the hall, and sank upon 
the divan near the stairway, his head resting 
upon his hands. 

Margaret followed him and laid her hand 
upon his heavy dark hair. 

He trembled at her touch. 

Do not feel so,’' she said sadly. ‘‘We 
have been friends all our life. Fax, and we 
must be friends now.” 

“ I don’t see how you can say that, Mar- 
garet. How can you? ” 

She did not answer immediately, but 
stood looking down at him silently. 

“ Let us think no more of it. Fax. I 
have forgotten it already,” she finally said 
with a smile. 

“ I realize,” she continued presently, with 
great earnestness, “ that my life is becom- 
ing more complicated every day. I am in 
a fearful position. If I remain there, what 
will become of Jim? If I leave, there will 
be a dreadful fight and the scandal that is 


Of a Child. 


135 

ever attached to a divorce. It is hard; yes, 
very hard.” 

‘‘ Margaret, I would give my life to help 
you.” 

‘‘ I know it, Fax, and I thank you.” 

Words are meaningless, Margaret.” 

“ Between friends,” she said with sincere 
trustfulness, ‘‘ they are not needed. You 
are the only friend to whom I can turn.” 
She leaned against the stairway and clasped 
her hands. 

At last he raised his head and met her 
steadfast eyes ; met them with a quiet air of 
courage, that she knew so well, and that 
was typical of his strong character. He 
was calm, and, excepting his pale face, there 
were no outward traces of the fierce strug- 
gle within. 

Sometimes I think I will take Jim and 
go away secretly. But where could I go? 
And then there would be the haunting 
dread of discovery.” 

“No, I wouldn’t do that,” said Marmion 
decisively. “ You must get a legal separa- 
tion.” 

“ I have a strange feeling, an oppressive 


136 


For the Honor 


weight, an indefinable fear of something, 
I know not what/’ Her voice broke, and 
was filled with agitation; she pressed her 
hands against her heart. 

Marmion looked at her gravely. Your 
fears are groundless, Margaret. You have 
gone through so much it has made you 
morbid. You must obtain a separation 
from this fiend. You shall get it. I know 
that you can get a divorce. There isn’t a 
court in the land but what will grant it.” 
He paused a moment, then said quickly: 

Why not have your husband arrested for 
cruel treatment? Curse him! I’d like to 
kill him!” He clenched his hands and a 
murderous light leaped into his dark 
eyes. 

‘‘ No, no, you mustn’t say that,” she said 
fearfully. Promise me that > ou will keep 
out of his way.” 

‘‘ Why should I keep out of his way? I 
don’t fear him.” His tone was hard and 
stern. My life is valueless to me. It 
would afford me intense satisfaction to kill 
him.” He turned his head to avoid meet- 
ing her eyes. 


Of a Child. 


137 

Fax, you are stronger than that; don't 
talk so." 

“ You overestimate my strength," he said 
coolly. 

Fax, you don't know what a wicked, 
daring man he is. Promise me to be care- 
ful. That was what brought me here to- 
night. Oh, try to realize how serious it 
really is! What more can I say?" she 
asked entreatingly. 

He was touched by her pleading voice. 
‘‘ Margaret," he said slowly, looking toward 
her again, I promise you that I'll do 
nothing rash. I would be mad to do a 
‘^thing like that now. I fully realize that 
your name is at stake. It is infinitely 
harder for me to keep my hands off him 
than it would be to shoot him like a cur. 
However, my cooler judgment tells me 
that such an act on my part might hurt you. 
Your husband will give you a divorce; 
the law will compel him to do so." He 
stopped an instant, then added hurriedly, 
‘‘ Notwithstanding this, if the law refuses to 
set you free, God grant that I may be the 
one to do it." 


For the Honor 


138 

‘‘ What right have you to think of such a 
thing? ’’ Her voice was cold and distant 
again, and fell on him icily. 

“ None whatever,’^ he said sadly. ‘‘ I 
have sacrificed all rights to your friend- 
ship.” 

“ Fax,” she pleaded earnestly, and her 
words were low and soft. Do you want 
to make me more unhappy than I am? 
Don’t you know that, whatever else he is, 
still he is Jim’s father, and if you should 
harm him in any way, or he should try to 
injure you, such a course could not but 
bring disgrace upon the child.” 

‘‘ You are right, Margaret, you are al- 
ways right. Your will is my will,” he said 
with bowed head. 

“ You are strong. Fax. I depend on 
you.” 

He sprang to his feet and stood beside 
her, looking down into her face. ‘‘ God 
forgive me, Margaret, if I have hurt you 
this night. I hope I may never see the day 
when I shall add to your sorrows. And 
there will be no tragedy,” he said, with a 
voice full of confidence. ‘‘ He is a treach- 


Of a Child. 


139 


erous coward at heart — you need not fear 
him. I am going to a lawyer to-morrow. 
May I, Margaret?” 

“ No, if anyone consults a lawyer, I will 
be the one. But I must think it all over — 
yes, I must think it all over,” she repeated 
slowly. 

“ You and little Jim come here, — to this 
house, — and be under mother’s protection,” 
he urged strongly. 

She shook her head. 

‘‘ I will leave the country, if I have 
offended you beyond pardon. I will write 
for her to-night. Mother will advise 
you, Margaret. She will be a truer 
and better friend to you than I’ve ever 
been.” 

She did not answer; but she handed him 
her cloak, and he wrapped it tenderly round 
her. 

She held her hands out to him, and he 
clasped them between his strong palms. 

‘‘ Good-night, Fax,” she said softly, ‘‘ I 
will see your mother when she comes home. 
She can help me, I am sure. She is a dear 
little thing; I have often watched her from 


140 For the Honor Of a Child. 


my window, and have wished many times 
she would come to see me.” 

Oh, Margaret! if she had only known 
you cared ” 

Hush! I understand,” she said. 

You are not afraid?” he asked, his 
hand on the door knob. 

'' No, I am not afraid,” she answered, 
with a bright smile. 

“ Let me go with you as far as the gate.” 

“ It is not best,” she said softly. 

Before he realized it, she had slipped 
from his side and passed out of the house 
and glided swiftly across the street. 

Once she turned and looked back at him, 
and the moonlight fell upon her with a di- 
vine softness; in that moment the sadness 
vanished from her face, and the joy and 
happiness of other years shone there. 


FRAGMENT VII 


FOR A CONSIDERATION. 

Ricardo Lamadrid knew that his wife 
wanted to leave him. He would not con- 
sent to a divorce; he had settled that in his 
own mind, once and for all. It would be 
easier to move heaven or earth than to 
change him on that point. And, after the 
threats he had made, he did not be- 
lieve she would undertake to obtain a 
legal separation. But he was dogged by 
a fear that she might take the child and 
leave him. She was different from what he 
had ever known her; there was a something 
hovering round her that he could not un- 
derstand. ^ 

To be sure, for the greater part of the 
time, he guarded Margaret and the child 
zealously. But even so, there were hours 


142 


For the Honor 


when he was compelled to relax his vigi- 
lance, and, aside from this, it was extremely 
wearing on his sensitive nerves to be har- 
assed in such a way. 

Lamadrid was not a dull man. On the 
contrary, he was a man of keen perceptions, 
and he realized fully the high standard 
of Margaret’s nature, and rightfully judged 
that the child was responsible for her de- 
sire to leave him. So, after due delibera- 
tion, he had determined upon a plan, which 
he hoped to have carried out by a man in 
whom he had perfect confidence. 

When the plan had shaped itself, and 
taken firm root in his mind, he invited Jack 
Storey to dine with him. Storey had fre- 
quently done so; sometimes at the club, 
sometimes at his home. 

No one ever knew exactly what Jack 
Storey’s line of business really was, even 
those he had assisted in various ways were at 
a loss about the matter, but it was tacitly 
understood that he would do anything for 
money when hard up, and as hard up was 
his normal condition, he was nearly always 
open for business. Moreover, he had the 


Of a Child. 


143 


appearance of a gentleman, and was not 
hard to approach. 

He was generous when he had money, 
spending it like a prince, and he expected 
his associates to be the same when he was 
short of funds, and he did not hesitate to 
tell them so. He had a strange nature, 
somewhat like a kaleidoscope in its endless 
angles and changes. 

On this evening, when he dined with 
Lamadrid, there were no other guests pres- 
ent, and at the close of dinner Margaret 
excused herself, and went to Jim’s room, 
her husband having graciously acceded to 
her wish. 

Strange to say, the dinner had been 
rather a pleasant one. Lamadrid, for a rea- 
son known to himself alone, had partaken 
sparingly of wine, and to Jack Storey wine 
was as water. 

At his host’s desire. Storey followed 
him into a small apartment adjoining the 
drawing-room, which was Ricardo Lama- 
drid’s private den. 

The room was furnished with several 
leather chairs and a lounge, a large rug of 


144 


For the Honor 


foreign manufacture on the polished floor, 
and a round table under the chandelier, 
with cards and poker chips scattered on its 
surface. Near at hand was a smaller table, 
laden with decanters, glasses, and cigars. 

Storey sauntered over to the centre of the 
room, and, after lighting his cigar, stood 
toying with the poker chips. Every little 
while he bent his head to catch the perfume 
from the white carnation in the lapel of his 
coat. He was the picture of health: about 
twenty-eight or thirty years old, of medium 
height, with a bold, fearless face, gray eyes, 
dark hair, tinged slightly with silver, and a 
great deal of color in his cheeks. His de- 
meanor was marked by a breezy air, and 
he was well dressed and always at his ease. 

“ That was a good dinner, Ricardo.” 
He looked at his host and smiled. His 
smile was extraordinarily brilliant, and his 
soft, drawling voice pleasant and seductive. 

An excellent one,” he continued. Eve 
got a touch of indigestion; have an idea it 
was the salad. However, it was worth it. 
Where’d you get the terrapin?” 

Baltimore.” 


Of a Child. 


145 


To be sure, might have known it: a 
regular Chesapeake aristocrat. Good things 
to eat, accompanied by a dash of sparkle, 
go a long way to compensate a man for liv- 
mg. 

Lamadrid drew a chair close to the table 
and threw himself into it. After a few mo- 
ments he approached the subject upper- 
most in his mind. Gradually he unfolded 
his plan, until there was no mistaking his 
meaning. Indeed he need not have been 
so explicit — his companion was keen after 
a scent. 

Jack Storey wheeled a chair close to the 
table and sat down. He gathered the cards 
up in his hands; he did not answer; but 
shufUed and reshuffled the cards, and finally 
started to deal them. Lamadrid shoved 
them roughly away and tapped the table 
impatiently with his fingers. 

Storey went on dealing the cards, with a 
good-natured smile. I just want to see 
what Td get if we were playing.’’ He 
turned them over. ‘‘ Ah! a bobtailed flush. 
One card, please. Thanks. And still a 
bobtailed flush.” 


146 


For the Honor 


Suddenly he threw the cards down and 
pushed his chair back from the table. 

When do I get the consideration, if I un- 
dertake the thing? ’’ 

Whenever you wish it,” his companion 
said curtly. 

Storey leaned forward and rested his 
elbows on the table, his chin in the palms of 
his hands. 

Let me see, I must have a clear under- 
standing of the case. You want me to take 
the child to Spain and keep him there till 
you send me word to bring him back 
again.” 

Speak lower.” 

'‘You want the whole thing invisible to 
the casual observer; sort of a sleight-of- 
hand business — now you see the boy, and 
now jou don’t.” 

" Exactly.” 

" In plain language, the boy is to be 
kidnaped — gotten out of the way, so to 
speak.” 

“ Will you do it? ” — in piercing tones. 

" Will I do it? ” he said, with a low laugh. 
“ Will a starving man refuse bread? Still, 


Of a Child. 


147 


I tell you frankly, I don’t much fancy the 
job. I’ve done a good many shady things 
in my life; have helped a score of honor- 
able gentlemen rise to the occasion, when 
fate demanded that they should. I’m not 
the man to be squeamish about small 
things; you know that, Cardo, my friend. 
But I’ve never yet had the extreme felicity 
of separating a mother and a child.” 

Lamadrid scowled heavily, and his jovial 
companion paused a while, as he blew the 
clouds of smoke from his mouth and 
watched them circle gracefully above his 
head. 

“ Ah, Cardo! if only a fellow didn’t have 
a mother himself! That’s what plays the 
deuce with us, isn’t it? ” He laughed 
lightly. ‘‘ Nevertheless, I’m beastly hard 
up, and then I might not get the chance 
again to exercise my powers in that direc- 
tion. And such a mother! And such a 
child! But such a consideration; that’s the 
sticker ! Enough to retire on, and be 
happy.” 

“ Hold your tongue! ” 

He paid no heed to his companion’s 


148 


For the Honor 


words; in fact, he seemed to be having a re- 
markably pleasant time. 

Easy work and good pay. Risk slight 
and penalty doubtful, I believe.'’ 

Ricardo Lamadrid, reaching out his 
hand, took a decanter from the small table 
and poured out some Scotch whisky into 
one of the glasses and gulped it down. He 
pushed the decanter toward Storey; but 
his companion did not touch it. 

Fve never had any particular calling; 
that is to say, no legitimate business. I'm 
what might be called an undertaker. An 
undertaker of peculiarly difficult work. I 
bury the living, and not the dead, so to 
speak." 

His host took another drink, rose from 
the table and threw himself into a large 
easy-chair. He stretched his legs out com- 
fortably at full length, laid his head back, 
and closed his eyes. He himself was 
morose and silent, though he did not in 
any great degree resent his companion's 
off-hand manner or his extreme famil- 
iarity. 

Storey rose from his chair, thrust his 


Of a Child. 


149 


hands into his trousers pockets, and walked 
up and down the room. 

‘‘Yes, old man, with me the lack of 
money is the root of all evil. You, I sup- 
pose, have found it in direct opposition. 
With money I’m a good representation of 
a man moseying along the strait and nar- 
row way. Without money Tm ” 

“ What’s the use of talking so much 
devilish nonsense? ” 

“ Heavens, Cardo! but you are getting 
to be a pleasant comrade! You’re one 
man in a million. At least,” he added 
apologetically, “ I hope you are.” 

“ I’d like to wipe you out of existence.” 

“ Of course you would.” Storey smiled. 
“ But I guess you won’t cut me off in the 
flower of my youth and beauty, especially 
since I intend to render you so sublime a 
service. And dying’s the last thing I’m go- 
ing to do — the very last.” He paused to 
relight his cigar, then continued: “Look 
here, old man, you’re indulging in too 
much fire-water and patronizing the little 
god of forgetfulness too often. You’re not 
like yourself, my boy. Listen to this. 


ISO 


For the Honor 


' Look not upon the wine when it is red 
or, better still, ‘ Wine is a mocker, strong 
drink is raging: and whosoever is deceived 
thereby is not wise/ ’’ His tone was ban- 
tering, and he leaned against the wall and 
looked at his host. 

'' Fool! You’re a good one to preach! ” 
Fm glad you appreciate the fact,” 
Storey answered glibly, studying the 
toe of his shoe. You see, I know 
whereof I speak. I find in my business 
Fve got to be sober, industrious, and dis- 
honest.” He laughed a careless, musical 
laugh. “ My patrons demand these three 
qualities. In reality, they are essential to 
success in ’most all callings in this transi- 
tory life. Seems to me it’s awfully hot in 
here. What do you say to having a win- 
dow open? ” He did not wait for a reply, 
but lowered one of the windows. 

There, that is fine! Nothing like fresh 
air. Do you feel that breeze? ” 

He came back where Lamadrid was re- 
clining, and sat on the edge of the table. 

‘‘ I’m in earnest about it though, Cardo; 
you ought to reform. Let opium and drink 


Of a Child. 


151 

alone. You’re undermining your health. 
Give them up.” 

A sarcastic laugh greeted him. I’ll be 
hanged if I do.” 

‘‘ That may happen in any event,” said 
Storey, looking at him sympathetically. 
“ ‘ ’Twas ever thus from childhood’s hour.’ 
‘ The sluggard is wiser in his own conceit 
than seven men that can render a reason.’ 
That was a great saying of my dear old 
daddy’s.” A grave shadow flitted across 
the careless face; only an instant, however, 
was it there. For he started to sing, in a 
remarkably sweet and tender voice, part of 
an old song: 

“ Kathleen Mavourneen ! the gray dawn is breaking, 
The horn of the hunter is heard on the hill ; 

The lark from her light wing the bright dew is 
shaking, 

Kathleen Mavourneen ! what, slumbering still ? 

** Oh ! hast thou forgotten how soon we must sever ? 
Oh, hast thou forgotten this day we must part ? 

It may be for years, ” 


Suddenly he broke off and said quickly: 
“ How am I to get the child? ” 


152 For the Honor 

“That is your business, not mine; 
what the devil do you think the money’s 
for? ” 

“Ah, to be sure! Well, I thought per- 
haps you might offer a suggestion, or some- 
thing. However, no matter; I’ll try my 
hand at it. I’ll abduct him in style — try to 
please everybody. And I pledge you my 
word of honor not a hair of his bonny head 
shall be hurt.” 

He walked over and poured a very small 
quantity of brandy in a glass, and raised it 
in his hand ; “ Let him drink and forget his 
poverty and remember his misery no 
more ! ” He took a small swallow, and stood 
holding the glass in his hand. 

“ Is that from Shakspere or the Bible? 
How those old saws do stick to a fellow. 
Everything I want to say someone else has 
said before I was born, and as they have in- 
variably used my exact words, I blush at 
their affrontiveness.” He twisted his mus- 
tache thoughtfully. 

“When do you want us to decamp?” 

“ Day after to-morrow.” 

“Too sudden. What’s the rush?” 


Of a Child. 


153 

Day after to-morrow or not at all. Fm 
not here to give explanations.” 

Nor I to receive them. Very well; day 
after to-morrow,” he said airily. “ Here’s 
to a safe journey! ” He finished drinking 
the brandy and set the glass down upon the 
table. 

‘‘ When and where can I see you to make 
final arrangements? ” 

‘‘ To-morrow afternoon, three o’clock — 
at clubhouse.” 

“ I’ve got an infernal lot of creditors on 
my track, too, Cardo; don’t forget that 
when you come.” 

His companion looked at him contempt- 
uously and shrugged his shoulders. 

There’ll be none you can’t settle with 
when I get through with you.” 

'‘Don Ricardo Lamadrid, you’re a black- 
guard.” 

Storey uttered these words as softly and 
as soothingly as if he had said, " You are 
an angel.” 

His manner of expression pleased his 
host, and he laughed aloud. " You are a 
knave. Jack.” 


IS4 For the Honor Of a Child. 

A good pair to draw to; and honors are 
easy, I believe.” 

Lamadrid’s spirits were rising. Storey 
always had a strange attraction for him. 
It was his cheerful candor, perhaps, he 
found so refreshing. 

What do you say to a game of poker? ” 
he said, with some animation. 

Thaf s for you to say.” 

‘‘ Well, draw up.” 

They took their places at the table; 
Storey picked up the cards, and his com- 
panion stacked the chips. 

If this is for money, you’ll have to 
make an advance,” said Storey. 

'‘By Jove, that’s exciting, I must say; 
play for my own ducats! ” 

" It’s agreeable to me, if no one else ob- 
jects. And you’ll have an exciting time 
keeping them. I’ll warrant, if my good luck 
hasn’t deserted me. Stake me, Ricardo, 
and may I never regret it.” 

It was late when the game ended, but 
Jack Storey was fresh as the morning dew 
when he finally bowed himself away, with 
a light laugh and a cheery " good-night.” 


FRAGMENT VIII. 


A RECONNOISSANCE. 

At ten-thirty the following morning Don 
Santiago Laurence Lamadrid was review- 
ing his troops. His wooden soldiers, with 
their bright red uniforms and expression- 
less faces, were arrayed systematically at 
one end of the roomy porch, and he stood 
before them, his head and shoulders thrown 
back, in glorious apparel. He had on a red 
coat trimmed with gilt buttons; a Napole- 
onic hat, decorated with a waving plume, 
sat jauntily on his brown hair; and he was 
armed with a small wooden musket, that 
he was changing from one position to an- 
other with wonderful dexterity: '‘Pre- 
sent arms! Carry arms! Shoulder arms! 
March!” 

He gave the commands in a ringing 


*55 


For the Honor 


156 

voice. When he cried ‘‘March!” he 
shouldered his musket, wheeled round, ad- 
vanced grandly with military precision to 
the other end of the porch, and then back 
again with soldierly step to his little 
regiment. This manoeuvre he repeated a 
number of times. So interested had he be- 
come in his play, that he did not see a 
swinging figure cross from the opposite 
side of the street and approach the house. 
The man’s gray eyes scrutinized the prem- 
ises before he let his gaze rest curiously 
upon the child. 

At once he became an interested spec- 
tator. He could not see the wooden sol- 
diers, but he heard the words of command 
from the little boy, and he smiled to him- 
self. 

He watched him for a short time, one 
hand resting on the iron gate, the other 
twirling his mustache. Finally he accosted 
the child. “ Come over here. Muggins, I 
want to ask you some questions.” 

His voice was low, but far-reaching and 
distinct. 

The boy looked quickly up, but did not 


Of a Child. 


IS7 

answer. He turned back to his patient 
soldiers, apparently paying no attention to 
the interruption. But a moment after his 
command Break ranks ! ’’ rang out on the 
air. Then he wheeled, marched to the mid- 
dle of the porch, wheeled again, and came 
down the stone steps, then down the broad 
stone sidewalk leading to the gate, and, at 
last, when within several feet of the man, 
who was lounging over it, he called in 
a commanding voice, ‘‘Halt!’^ and stood 
leaning on his musket. 

The man looked at him, a gleam of fun 
in his eyes. ‘‘ What do you call that, my 
friend?’’ 

“ I’m Napoleon Bonaparte.” 

Well, how’re Josephine and the folks? ” 

‘‘ Oh, I guess they’re well. I think they 
are. 

‘'That’s right, Napoleon, don’t commit 
yourself. But where did you get your fine 
clothes? Not in this country. I’ll stake my 
pile on that.” 

“ This is my soldier suit,” the child an- 
swered proudly. “ My mother made the 
hat, and I guess she bought the coat. 


iS8 For the Honor 

and Santa Claus brought me the gun 
and the soldiers. Do you want to come 
in? ’’ 

‘‘No, I haven’t time. Is Mr. Lamadrid 
at home? ” 

“ No, he isn’t.” 

“ That’s good,” his companion answered 
lightly, “ a man can go home when he can’t 
go any place else. Is Mrs. Lamadrid 
home? ” 

“ Mrs. Lamadrid’s my mother — she’s up- 
stairs. Do you want to see her? ” 

“ No; not particularly. You’ll do just as 
well.” He took a package of cigarettes 
from his pocket and put one between his 
firm, even teeth. He held them toward the 
boy. “ Have a smoke? ” he asked, scowl- 
ing his brows good-naturedly. 

The child drew back a step, then said 
soberly: “No, I can’t smoke cigars.” 

“ These are not cigars, they’re cigarettes 
— lots more fun than cigars.” 

“ Well, I can’t smoke them any way,” 
the boy answered. 

“ You have my letter of condolence.” 
He put the package in his pocket. 


Of a Child. 


159 

The boy came a step nearer. I can 
smoke a pipe, though,’^ he said. 

The man laughed and shook his head. 
‘‘ Oh, see here, now! you’re joking.” 

“No, I’m not. Honest! My pipe’s a 
clay pipe and I smoke tea-tobacco. I’ve 
got a little sack, with a string that pulls 
up, to put my tea-tobacco in. And I’ve got 
a lovely silver match-box filled with tooth- 
picks to light my pipe with. Tom’s got a 
pipe, too.” He came closer to the fence. 
“ And he’s got a sack of real tobacco, and 
really truly matches. His pipe smells — 
mine don’t,” he added regretfully. 

“ That’s too bad,” the man said with a 
rueful air. 

“ Mother says I’m a Pretender.” 

The man pushed his hat on the back of 
his head, and blew the smoke in wreaths 
from his mouth. 

“ I think she might say it with safety.” 

“ Tom and I used to have good smokes 
together, and talk over old times. Tom’s 
got lots of old times. I used to talk to him 
when he was doing his work. He’d take 
me out to the barn with him; but Don Ri- 


i6o For the Honor 

cardo said I mustn’t associate with Tom. 
He says he isn’t a gentleman; and I don’t 
go any more. Tom said he knew it wasn’t 
seemly. Mother says Tom’s a gentleman 
at heart, though, and I must always be kind 
to him.” Suddenly the boy raised his eyes 
to his companion’s face. ‘‘ Are you a gen- 
tleman at heart?” he asked earnestly. 

The man laughed and tossed his cigarette 
into the street. 

Faith, I don’t believe anyone could ac- 
cuse me of such a thing,” he said gayly. 
‘‘ I’m a gentleman at large, if you must 
know.” He paused a moment, then said 
softly: ‘‘See here, Napoleon, wouldn’t you 
like to go with me and get some candy? 
I’ll bring you home in a jiffy.” 

The boy shook his head. “ I can’t.” 

“ Why not? I’ll get you a great big bag 
full.” His voice and manner was very win- 
ning. “ Why can’t you go? ” 

“ I promised my mother I wouldn’t go 
out of the yard; that’s the reason I can’t.” 

“Oh, pshaw! Your mother won’t care. 
It ’ll only take you a minute. Don’t you 
want to go? ” 


Of a Child. 


i6i 


Yes, I want to go. I’ll ask my 
mother.” 

'' No,” the man said decidedly, “ if you 
want to go, come on. I can’t wait till you 
ask her.” 

The boy was obdurate. “ Then I can’t 
go. I promised my mother, and we never 
break our word.” 

Do you use the term we as applying to 
yourself as a high dignitary, or do you 
mean that your mother as well as yourself 
— has a large bump of obstinacy? Or 
maybe you inherit it from your noble 
father’s Spanish ancestors? But no matter, 
it’s all the same. Come, let’s go; we can 
get the candy while we are talking.” 

No, I can’t go.” 

What kind of candy are you specially 
fond of? ” 

“ I’m specially fond of gum drops. 
Once I went with Bertha to a store and I 
bought some out of a tub — they had a tub 
full. Mother likes chocolate dulce the 
best. I like gum drops, because they last 
longer.” 

‘ Linked sweetness long-drawn out,’ so 


i 62 


For the Honor 


to speak. Come with me, my dear boy, and 
I will buy you enough gum drops to last 
you a life-time.” 

The child raised his gun to his shoulder, 
but stood still. 

“ rd go if I could,” he said firmly; “ but 
I can’t.” 

“ You could if you would, you mean.” 

The boy laughed, and shook his brown 
head. The man looked at him attentively 
for some time, then changed his tactics. 

"‘Ahem! What would you rather have 
than anything else in the world; if you 
could have one wish, what would you 
take?” 

“ A steam yacht,” the boy answered 
promptly. 

“ Now, that is very singular — ^very. I 
was just going to say if you’ll come with me 
to get the candy, to-morrow I’ll buy you a 
beautiful steam yacht. You could be the 
captain. We’d take a run over to Spain, if 
you say so.” 

“ I couldn’t take the yacht. Mother 
never allows me to take anything from any- 
body.” 


Of a Child. 163 

“ I shouldn’t think she’d mind anything 
so small as that.” 

The yacht was a great temptation. He 
turned toward the house. I’ll ask her.” 

‘‘Stop!” the man said softly. “Come 
with me first and get the candy. Ask her 
afterward. Shall I lift you over the fence?” 

“ No.” 

The man laughed a quiet, low laugh. “ I 
like your principle, boy; you’re a good one. 
I just wanted to try you, and see what you 
would do in such a case. You’re a stanch 
little fellow and I like you.” 

“ I like you, too,” the child said quickly, 
with friendly trust. 

The man smiled. “By heavens! I be- 
lieve, if you had given in, I’d ’a’ paddled 
you good.” Then he looked at the child 
sternly, and said, “ Don’t you ever go any 
place with anybody except your mother, and 
don’t you take a thing from a living soul, 
unless she says you may. If you do you’ll 
be the sorriest boy in the world. Would 
you like to be separated from your mother 
and never see her again?” 

The boy smiled. 


164 


For the Honor 


“ Somebody ’ll carry you off sure, if 
you’re not careful.” 

I’m not afraid,” the child answered 
fearlessly. 

Neither was Napoleon Bonaparte 
afraid, but he came to grief just the same. 
Come here, child,” he added kindly. 
‘‘ Come and shake hands with me. I’m go- 
ing now.” 

Don Santiago Laurence Lamadrid came 
close to the high fence, and put his hand 
through the iron bars. 

The man shook it with a great deal of 
warmth. After that he stood up straight 
and took an envelope out of his inner coat- 
pocket. He held it in his hand and gazed 
impressively at the child. Will you give 
this to your mother? Your mother, you 
understand. No one else. Now, whom is 
it for?” 

“ My mother.” The boy reached up and 
took the letter from the outstretched hand 
above him. 

‘'That’s right. Your mother. You 
wait here till I turn the corner; then you 
go and give it to her.” 


Of a Child. 165 

I know my mother ’ll be much obliged 
to you,” the child said deferentially. 

‘'Don’t mention it, Mr. Bonaparte; I’m 
sure of that.” He lighted another cigar- 
ette. “ Well, good-by, and be a good 
boy.” 

Don Santiago clasped the envelope in his 
hand, and watched the man saunter down 
the street. As the careless fellow walked 
along he sang softly to himself a snatch 
from his favorite song: 

Mavourneen, Mavourneen ; my sad tears are falling, 
To think that from Erin and thee I must part : 

It may be for years, and it may be forever ! 

Then why art thou silent, thou voice of my heart ? 

It may be for years, and it may be forever, 

Then why art thou silent, Kathleen Mavourneen ?’* 

The child listened to his voice as it grew 
fainter and fainter; he strained his ear to 
catch the last sweet notes, after the young 
man had vanished round the corner. At 
last, when he could no longer distinguish 
the soft strain, he turned and ran toward 
the house, glancing up at the windows of 
his mother’s rooms, to see if she were visi- 


For the Honor 


1 66 

ble. He fairly flew up the stairs, and burst 
into Margaret’s presence excitedly. 

She stood before the long mirror, pinning 
a veil over her face. ‘‘ Jim dear, get ready 
now, we’re going for a drive. Tell Bertha 
to put on your blue coat and your other 
hat.” 

He hurried toward her. Mother, a 
man wanted to give me a steam yacht, but 
I didn’t take it.” 

‘‘ A steam yacht! ” 

‘‘Yes, a really truly one, to sail on the 
ocean, and I could be the captain; but I 
wouldn’t take it. I wanted to, mother 
dear, oh, so much I I’d have taken you for 
a long sail if I could. You said I couldn’t 
go out of the yard or take things, didn’t 
you?” 

Margaret stooped down and put her 
hands on the boy’s shoulders and looked 
into his face. 

“ What man, Jim? I don’t understand.” 

“ A man down by the fence. A real nice 
man. I like him very much. He had 
white teeth and smiled all the time.” The 
boy’s face was sparkling with excitement. 


Of a Child. 


167 


Margaret looked at him earnestly. 

‘‘ He wanted me to go and get candy. I 
told him I promised you I wouldn’t take 
anything from anybody, or go out of the 
yard again.” 

“That’s right, dear; I don’t wish you to 
take anything or leave the house without 
first asking mother. And, Jim dear, I don’t 
like to have you talk to strange men.” 

“ He wasn’t strange. He knew you and 
Don Ricardo, and he seemed to know me.” 

“Who was it?” She took his flushed 
face gently between her hands and looked 
at him closely. 

“ I don’t know his name. I didn’t ask 
him^ He gave me a letter for you, 
though.” 

“A letter for me!” she exclaimed in 
amazement, rising. “ Are you joking, 
Jim?” 

All this time he had kept one hand care- 
fully behind him, and now he brought the 
letter triumphantly forward. 

“He gave it to me for you. It isn’t a 
joke.” 

Something made Margaret tremble. She 


i68 


For the Honor 


took the letter over by the window and sat 
down. The child laid his hat upon the bed 
and followed her. He leaned against her 
knee and watched her interestedly. She 
opened the envelope and drew a piece of 
paper from it. 

'‘Dear Madam: Watch the child. I 
have been hired to take him away from 
town. I don’t intend to do any such a 
thing. However, there may be another 
candidate for the work. Keep your eyes 
on him and oblige, 

A Friend.’' 

Margaret’s face reddened and grew pale. 
Her heart was beating rapidly. Was it so 
bad as that? 

Presently she turned to Jim, and said 
softly, " Don’t you know the man’s name, 
dear. Think a moment; perhaps you can 
remember it.” 

He shook his head quickly and positively. 

Suddenly she bent forward and caught 
the child to her breast. She held him close 
and kissed him again and again. She 


Of a Child. 


169 


bowed her head over his and thanked God 
repeatedly that he was there close to her. 
And yet she never felt more powerless in 
her life. 

The boy threw his arms round her neck 
and kissed her. Her manner and the ex- 
pression of her face startled him. 

‘‘ Whaf s the matter? ” he asked in a low, 
wondering voice. Does your head ache? 

She drew him to her with an ardent 
movement, bending her head so that he 
could not see her face. 

‘‘ Oh, mother! mother! You’re crying.” 
His mouth quivered. What makes you 
cry? Was it bad news in the letter? ” 

Margaret strove to be composed; she did 
not wish to give way before him or to 
frighten him; but her heart tightened. 

Hush, dear, it is nothing! I am not 
going to cry any more. Only the weak 
cry, and we are always going to be brave 
and strong.” 

‘‘ Well, sometimes I cry, mother, and Tm 
strong and brave, I think. But the tears 
come when I can’t help it; but I make them 
go back, if I can.” 


For the Honor 


170 

He was trying to console her, and he laid 
his face close to hers, and reached up and 
stroked her hair with his plump little hand. 
“ Your hair is awful soft, mother, and 
sometimes it looks like gold when we’re in 
the carriage. Bertha says mine is going to 
be black as a crow’s, like Don Ricardo’s, 
when I get big. I wish it wouldn’t. I’d 
rather have gold hair. Do you think it will 
be black, mother?” 

“ No, dear, I think it will always be 
brown, just as it is now. Your eyes and 
hair are like your dear grandfather’s. And 
brown hair is the prettiest of all. Mine will 
be dark brown, too, some day, I hope.” 

Shall we drive, mother dearest? ” 

Margaret smiled into his questioning 
eyes. 

“Yes, dear, we will; go and get your 
other coat and hat. Suppose you tell Ber- 
tha to bring them in here.” 

He left the room, but returned almost 
immediately with the maid, who had his 
clothes in her arms. 

As Margaret took them, the girl’s eyes 
rested anxiously on her altered face. 


Of a Child. 


171 

Can I do anything for you, Mrs. Lama- 
drid?’’ she asked impulsively. 

Margaret smiled gravely. Only my 
wrap, Bertha, that is all.'’ 

Thank you," she said, as the girl put 
the lace cape over her shoulders. 

'‘Will that be warm enough? It is 
chilly out this morning." 

“ My dress is warm," answered Mar- 
garet; “it will be plenty." 

“ Shall we have a long, long ride, mother 
dear? " 

“Yes, sweetheart, we will have a long, 
long ride. We will stay until we want to 
come home." 

He hung lovingly onto her hand as they 
went slowly from the room. 


FRAGMENT IX. 


THE CONSCIENCE OF A CON- 
SCIENCELESS MAN. 

At the time Ricardo Lamadrid entered 
a small private room at the clubhouse he 
fully expected to find Jack Storey waiting 
for him. But the place was empty, although 
it was close upon the hour they had agreed 
to meet. He paced up and down the floor 
impatiently. His black eyes were clear, his 
step steady, and his Southern blood hot in 
his veins. He looked at his watch; it was 
past the hour for Storey to put in an ap- 
pearance, and he slipped it into his pocket 
with an angry oath. He went over by one 
of the large windows and pushed aside the 
heavy drapery; he stood looking down into 
the street. 

He watched the people passing by, but 
his thoughts were occupied with Margaret 


172 


For the Honor Of a Child, 173 


and Don Santiago: of how he would soon 
have the child out of her reach, of how her 
haughty head would soon be leveled to the 
dust, of how she would beg for mercy 
at his feet. It exasperated him beyond 
endurance — the thought of the proud- 
spirited woman he had not conquered. 
His mind was restless as an engulfing wave. 
His brow knit in a frown and he pressed 
his teeth against his lower lip. Then he 
lighted a cigarette, and a grim smile came 
to his handsome, disagreeable mouth. 

Finally he turned abruptly, and was 
about to leave the room in disgust when a 
boy came to the door and handed him an 
envelope. He seized it and tore it open 
violently. On a small piece of paper, taken 
from a note-book, were scrawled a few terse 
sentences. He glanced them over hur- 
riedly : 

Stay where you are till I join you. 
It is vital that you do so. I have been 
unavoidably detained, but will be with 
you in a short time. If you leave you may 
miss me. My delay concerns our plans. 


174 


For the Honor 


Order a nice little repast, Cardo. Fd like 
to have another with you, old man, before I 
sail the seas over. 

J. S.” 

Lamadrid crumpled the note in his hand 
and threw it upon the floor with half-closed, 
gleaming eyes. ‘‘ To be kept waiting by 
such an insolent dog! ” he muttered, un- 
der his breath. He had not tasted wine for 
hours; he felt the keen necessity of retain- 
ing his senses if he were to accomplish his 
purpose, and yet his high-strung sensitive 
nerves were giving away, the insatiate de- 
sire for artificial vitality was burning him 
up. It was a grave question with him as 
to whether he would delay quenching his 
thirst until he met his cool-headed, bracing 
friend. 

And while he was reading these provok- 
ing words. Storey was making his way to 
the Lamadrid residence. He had, in fact, 
been in one of the lower rooms in the club- 
house when Lamadrid came to keep the 
appointment, and he did not send the note 
to him till he was sure his friend had gone 


Of a Child. 


175 


up the stairs, and into the apartment des- 
ignated the day before for their place of 
meeting. Then, having dispatched the 
message, he passed quietly out of a side 
door and down the street. He buttoned 
his coat and walked leisurely along. 

Once he stopped at a store and bought 
a box of candy; and after that was wrapped 
and handed to him, he bought a flower and 
fastened it in his buttonhole. 

When his card was handed to Margaret 
she was in the midst of making preparations 
to leave her home. She had not slept 
since the strange warning had come into 
her hands. It had filled her with bitter- 
ness; but, at length, this feeling had given 
way to a strong spirit of resolution. She 
had no definite plans for the future; she 
only knew that she was going away with 
little Jim, and that no one on earth should 
be taken into her confidence. Her decision 
to go had given her strength, and she felt a 
heavy weight lifted from her heart, now 
that it was all settled and clear in her 
mind. 

She was surprised when Jack Storey's 


176 


For the Honor 


card was brought to her, and was about to 
send word that her husband was not home, 
but her eyes fell upon a few words written 
below his name, May I see you a moment, 
Mrs. Lamadrid? 

There was no mistake as to whom he 
wished to see. So she hastened down the 
stairway and into the drawing-room. 

Storey was standing with his hat in hand, 
a healthy glow in his cheeks. He ad- 
vanced to meet her, with a friendly smile 
and a warm handshake. 

You are ill, Mrs. Lamadrid,’’ he said 
quickly, gazing at her white face. 

'' No, I am quite well, thank you,” Mar- 
garet answered, with a smile. Won't you 
sit down, Mr. Storey. Did you wish to see 
me? ” 

I can’t stay but a minute,” he said, sit- 
ting on the edge of a chair, his body bent 
forward, and swaying his hat in his hands. 
He bore himself with unembarrassed grace. 
“ Did you get my letter? ” 

‘‘Your letter!” she exclaimed, looking 
at him in great surprise. 

“ Yes, my anonymous letter,” he laughed 


Of a Child. 


177 


amusedly. ‘‘ Didn’t Napoleon give it to 
you? Fd wager my life, though, he did.’^ 

A silence followed, and Margaret’s eyes 
did not leave his face. Did you write 
it?” 

‘‘ Now see here, Mrs. Lamadrid, I did 
write that letter, and Fve been ashamed of 
it ever since I sent it. I should have come 
and told you personally what I had to say.” 

“ Where were you to take him? ” 

Spain.” 

‘‘Ah, I understand!” she said slowly. 
“ And how long were you to remain 
there? ” 

“ Really, Mrs. Lamadrid, I don’t know. 
I am very much in the dark on the subject.” 

“ But it is true,” she questioned coldly, 
“ you were asked to do a dastardly thing 
like that,, and you intended to do it? ” 

“ For heaven’s sake, don’t look that way, 
Mrs. Lamadrid. Yes, it is true I intended 
to do it, but it is equally true I changed my 
mind. I am sure Ricardo is not himself 
at the present time; he is most unnatural.” 

“ You do him an injustice,” she said, 
smiling slightly. 


178 


For the Honor 


‘‘ Hardly; that would be a difficult thing 
to do, Mrs. Lamadrid. And yet, on sec- 
ond thought, perhaps I do. I’ll modify 
my words, and put it in another way — 
he’s getting ’most too natural for com- 
fort. That’s the truth in a nutshell. How- 
ever, my idea in coming here was this: I 
thought if I could put you on your guard 
and explain to you just how matters stand, 
and what channel his thoughts are in, why 
you could sort of smooth things over for a 
while; he needs to be handled with gloves, 
you know. He’s a great fellow.” He 
laughed pleasantly. 

Margaret was not looking at him. She 
gazed straight before her with sad, unsee- 
ing eyes. 

He half rose in his chair, but she raised 
her head quickly, and stretched out a de- 
taining hand. ‘‘ Please don’t go for a mo- 
ment, Mr. Storey.” 

He sank affably back into the chair. 

‘‘ I was only taking a little exercise,” he 
said, smiling. 

“ Why were you selected to take the 
child? ” she asked. 


Of a Child. 


179 


My taking way, I suppose, had some- 
thing to do with it; and because that’s the 
kind of a man I am — there was money in it. 
It was purely a matter of business with me: 
a good business proposition, I should say.” 
He leaned over and rested his arm upon 
the chair. 

‘‘ What other family affairs did Mr. 
Lamadrid discuss with you, Mr. Storey, if 
I may ask?” 

On my soul and honor, Mrs. Lamadrid, 
absolutely nothing. But don’t you think 
yourself, if a man makes a request of that 
kind, there is a wide range for specula- 
tion? ” He paused, before adding, Now, 
if there is anything on earth I can do for 
you, why you can count on me. I mean 
what I say.” 

Margaret’s lip curved in scorn. Her 
proud heart refused to accept the situa- 
tion as it was. At the same time she could 
not make herself dislike Jack Storey, 
though, in her present mood, she could 
not understand his careless, joyous 
attitude. 

Probably you think I’ve got lots of 


i8o For the Honor 

nerve to sit here and talk to you this way, 
Mrs. Lamadrid.” 

‘‘ I may have had some such thought, Mr. 
Storey.” — She smiled. — ‘‘ Notwithstanding, 
I am grateful for your kindness to me. I 
am deeply indebted to you for the interest 
you have taken, and I appreciate it.” Her 
manner was very earnest. 

“ Now that sounds better,” he laughed. 
“ I was beginning to be sorry I came. My 
time is limited; IVe got an engagement 
with a man, and the chief thing I came 
here to ask you is this, can I be of any as- 
sistance to you? Don’t hesitate to say so, 
if I can be.” 

No, I believe not, Mr. Storey.” 

Of course, Mrs. Lamadrid, I know you 
think I’m a bad lot, — and that is only an- 
other case of a woman’s intuition being 
right, — still, to-day I am honest and frank 
with you; though, I am free to admit, 
to be frank and honest is strictly against 
my principles. A spade’s a spade, facts are 
facts, and until your husband gets over 
this crazy fit, you had better keep your 
eye on the child; and I’ll take Ricardo 


Of a Child. 


i8i 


under my wing and try to straighten him 
out. That is the gist of what I want to 
say.’’ 

Margaret’s heart was beating rapidly, 
yet she smiled and shook her head. 

‘'Mr. Storey, I cannot but feel your anx- 
iety over this matter is unnecessary. It 
seems incredible that such a thing could 
happen in a civilized country.” She 
paused, then leaned forward and looked 
steadily at her companion, and continued 
impressively, " Nevertheless, I assure you, 
no one on earth shall separate my child 
from me.” She threw her head back and 
closed her eyes for a moment. “ No one 
but God.” 

" Mrs. Lamadrid,” he said, in a low voice 
filled with sympathy and admiration, I 
suppose you are right, my fears may be 
groundless; I cannot say as to that. But I 
do know I have overstepped the bounds of 
society in coming here; even so, I hope you 
will forgive the transgression, for, believe 
me, it is the first time I have strolled from 
the broad and pleasant way. I suppose 
there is a limit to everything. To hold up 


i 82 


For the Honor 


an express train is one thing, and to sepa- 
rate a mother and child is another.” 

He rose and went over to a small table, 
where he had placed the box of candy when 
he came in; he touched it lightly with his 
hand. Will you give this to Napoleon 
Bonaparte for me, with my best wishes, and 
tell him they didn’t have any gum drops? ” 

She rose, and bowed her head in ac- 
knowledgment; she rested her arm against 
the back of the chair. 

Mr. Storey,” she said seriously, ‘‘ I can- 
not conceive of you doing a dishonorable 
act. You have taken me so by surprise, I 
have scarcely known what to say. I am be- 
wildered. Perhaps I have misunderstood 
you, — perhaps I have taken you too liter- 
ally, — I hardly know what to think. Of all 
the men who have come to our home I 
liked you best; I have had a high regard 
for you.” 

‘'Ah me! you speak in the past tense, 
Mrs. Lamadrid,” he said with a sigh. 

“ No,” she responded quickly, “ you mis- 
take me; my opinions are unchanged.” 

He bowed his head gracefully. I do 


Of a Child* 


1^3 

not hold the honor lightly, Mrs. Lamadrid. 
And for you I shall always cherish a never- 
fading admiration.’' Then, with a slight 
smile and jesting tone, To serve the queen 
I will sacrifice my patrimony.” 

“ Perhaps,” she went on, Mr. Lama- 
drid has influenced you; it may be he has 
injured you. If so, I am truly sorry.” 

‘‘ You are mistaken,” he replied hastily. 

Mrs. Lamadrid, you do not know me as I 
am. I was a fallen angel long before Ri- 
cardo crossed my path. I have lived a life 
such as you, from your nobility of charac- 
ter, couldn’t comprehend, if I told you of 
it. I have been superlatively wild and reck- 
less. There is no low or base thing I have 
not done.” Pie paused before adding, 
‘‘And I live with but one object in view; 
to prevent my mother from knowing me as 
I am. So far, I think, I have accomplished 
it.” 

“You have a mother?” 

“ The sweetest and dearest in the world. 
And I do solemnly swear it has not been an 
easy thing to keep her in happy ignorance, 
for mother has a legion of kind friends who 


184 


For the Honor 


would lend her assistance on the slightest 
provocation. Yes, it has troubled me im- 
measurably to keep her in the dark — has 
certainly turned my hair white.’’ He 
passed his hand tragically over his head. 

Such things are enough to make a hair- 
brush gray. You’d be amused, Mrs. 
Lamadrid, if you could see me at home.” 
He laughed at the pleasant recollection. 

I’m no prodigal son there, but, just the 
same, they kill the fatted calf whenever I 
put in an appearance. My father was a 
minister. I know you guessed as much the 
first night you saw me, didn’t you? And 
mother did her level best to make one out 
of me. When I was twelve years old she 
made me read the Bible through, and com- 
mit whole chapters. Why, actually I feel 
the effects of it even now occasionally, 
when I’m in the midst of a scientific game 
of whist. Upon my soul and honor I don’t 
know whether I am playing according to 
Hoyle or according to Proverbs. I learned 
to say the Lord’s Prayer backward, too, in 
those days, and after I committed it contra- 
riwise, I never could say it any other way.” 


Of a Child. 


i8s 

It is hard to believe all you say, Mr. 
Storey,” Margaret said, with a smile. 

Doesn’t it seem strange to think I grew 
up in such surroundings — above compre- 
hension; in truth, quite grotesque? I was 
one of the choir boys, too, you know. 
Mother has a ridiculous picture of me taken 
in my paraphernalia. Why, it is so lifelike, 
you can almost hear me shouting On- 
ward Christian Soldiers, Marching as to 
War! Do you remember that hymn, Mrs. 
Lamadrid? ” 

I remember it well,” she answered. 

Lead, Kindly Light, is mother’s fa- 
vorite.” 

“ The words are exquisite,” she said, ‘‘ I 
too am fond of them.” 

He sighed cheerfully. Sometimes when 
I am homesick for my mother and all her 
goodness, and heartsick for all my own 
shortcomings and goings, why, I go in my 
room, lock and bolt the door, shut the 
windows, and then sing every one of those 
old hymns I learned when I was a boy. 
They’re fine medicine for remorse.” 

“Then you do have regrets?” Mar- 


i86 For the Honor 

garet said. Pity and concern were on her 
face. 

‘‘Regrets? Why, yes, of course I do. 
Don't you, Mrs. Lamadrid? I suppose 
everybody has regrets sooner or later, for 
that matter. ’Tis a life of repentance.’’ 

Margaret did not answer. He noted the 
shadows on her face, and said hastily. 
“ Yes, poor mother thinks I am perfect, to 
this day. I’d be a villain to undeceive her. 
I’ve come to the conclusion that thinking 
is all there is in this life, anyway. If a per- 
son thinks a thing is so, it is true for him 
or for her, as the case may be, at any rate. 
Yes, indeed, she will always think I missed 
my calling. I’ll admit, though, at times, 
her eyes make me feel queer — such beauti- 
ful, speaking eyes.” He paused, then said 
quickly, “ I trust you will always have that 
same reverential love for your little Napo- 
leon, Mrs. Lamadrid.” 

“ I hope he will always be worthy of it,” 
she answered. 

“ Don’t get that into your head, Mrs. 
Lamadrid. No man on earth is worthy of 
a true woman’s love. You live in an at- 


Of a Child. 


187 


mosphere of purity, high above the actual 
life — sort of in the suburbs, you know, not 
in the real world. Yes, we’re a bad lot; 
some of us hide our infirmities better than 
others, but, if we were analyzed, we’d run 
about the same, I guess. You don’t be- 
lieve it, Mrs. Lamadrid ; I can see it in your 
eyes.” 

No, I cannot say I do,” she said ear- 
nestly. I scarcely know, Mr. Storey, 
whether you speak lightly or whether you 
are serious.” 

I was never more serious in my life,” he 
replied. 

“ Then,” said Margaret, smiling sadly, 
“ don’t you ever think of what you might 
have been? ” 

Certainly. I shiver when I think of my 
narrow escape. Honestly, Mrs. Lamadrid, 
my conscience troubles me little or none to 
speak of; it never was reliable. And yet, 
no person on earth has ever gotten more 
unadulterated bliss, more joyful satisfac- 
tion, out of this transitory existence than I 
have. My creed of life is simplicity itself. 
In reality, I believe in nothing save the 


For the Honor 


1 88 

surety of death, the power of money, the 
survival of the fittest. And the fittest is in- 
variably the man who has been shrewd 
enough to accumulate the dollars, and 
knows how to hold them. I always take 
off my hat with profound respect to such a 
man. But how I do procrastinate; and how 
deucedly brainless I am to keep you stand- 
ing; and what an idiot to rattle on about 
myself.’' 

‘‘ I prefer to stand,” said she, smiling. 
'‘And I have been intensely interested in 
what you have been saying.” 

“ You really must pardon me. Some 
way you set me to thinking about my home 
and the past, and all that sort of thing, Mr|. 
Lamadrid. I cannot remember when I 
have mentioned it to a soul before. I must 
be going,” he added, moving toward the 
door, and stopping when nearly there. He 
looked remarkably serious. “ Mrs. Lama- 
drid, if, on second thought, you come 
to the conclusion that I can render 
you a service, call on me. Here is the 
number of my room.” He took a 
card from his pocket and handed it to 


Of a Child. 


189 


her. Any word sent there will always 
reach me.’’ He paused. Isn’t there 
something I can do, just to prove how 
deadly in earnest I am? Do try my loyalty 
and devotion; you see, words are on the 
bargain counter. What can I do for you? ” 

Margaret came toward him impulsively, 
then stopped and said fervently, ‘‘ Mr. 
Storey, live as your mother thinks you are.” 

He threw back his head and laughed 
aloud. Mrs. Lamadrid, I’d never ’ve 
thought that of you. Still, I’ll forgive you; 
I’m magnanimous enough for that.” He 
laughed softly again. “ Pardon me; but it 
is amusing. However, you may have an- 
other wish.” 

Margaret came close to him and there 
was a trace of hesitation on her face. 

‘‘ Then I will ask you one thing more, 
Mr. Storey, before you go.” 

Oh, do, Mrs. Lamadrid! ” 

Have you made known your decision to 

Mr. Lamadrid in regard to not taking ” 

Her voice faltered. 

‘‘ No, I haven’t told him,” he said 
quickly. “ I am to meet him this after- 


190 For the Honor Of a Child. 

noon, and I look for unalloyed happiness. 
To tell the truth, I am supposed to be in 
the midst of packing my grip.” 

‘‘ Will you keep the peace with him until 
to-morrow afternoon?” As she spoke her 
glance sought his imploringly. 

'His clever gray eyes looked directly into 
her anxious ones. ‘‘ Yes, I’ll keep the 
peace with him; most assuredly I will. I’ll 
kill him, if I can’t do it any other way. 
However, he may have changed his mind 
about the whole affair.” 

He came and took her hand in his rever- 
ently; he bowed low over it and raised 
it to his lips. 

Margaret could not but smile at his man- 
ner; it was so absurdly youthful. 

After this, he went out of the house 
speedily — at an unusual pace for him — and 
hastened to keep the peace with a very un- 
ruly subject. 


FRAGMENT X. 


LOVE IS LOVE FOREVERMORE. 

Fairfax Marmion never knew who 
came for him, or how he reached Margaret 
that night. He was conscious of nothing 
till he entered the room where she was 
lying still, with closed eyes; and there was 
something about her face in repose that 
shocked him terribly. 

On the table, near the bed, a lamp was 
burning, subdued by a soft shade, and the 
fitful fire in the grate cast weird shadows 
around the splendid place. Somewhere in 
the room there were violets; their fragrance 
permeated everything. His footsteps mad } 
no noise upon the rich carpet, and, as he 
drew near, the blood left his face, and a chill 
was on his heart. He stood still as a 
statue and looked at her despairingly, his 


192 


For the Honor 


heart in his eyes, his breath quickened. 
His soul was filled with unutterable an- 
guish; love and regret were slowly stifling 
him; the room swam before his eyes, and 
he swayed from side to side. He was 
thinking of the time when Margaret had 
loved him, and of all the happiness he had 
lost. Why was she lying there, with that 
look? 

‘‘ Has anything happened? Oh, Mar- 
garet, what is it? ” His lips were stiff, and 
the words fell on his ears with a peculiar 
sound. 

When she saw him, a blush mantled her 
cheeks and caused them to shine with life 
again. You are good to come so soon. 
It must be very late.” Her eyes looked 
straight into his, and they held and fasci- 
nated him strangely. 

And as he gazed mutely at her, a great 
light broke over her face, while into her 
eyes came a look that set his blood on fire. 
For, from them shone eloquent, death- 
less love, with its soft lights and tender 
shadows. 

And yet he stood still, not comprehend- 


Of a Child. 


193 


Ing the full meaning of that beautiful ex- 
pression. 'He was vaguely wondering how 
anyone could look into her eyes and doubt 
the immortality of the soul. 

‘‘ I love you, Fax,’’ she whispered, hold- 
ing her arms out to him. ‘‘ You were 
right, such love as mine can never die.” 

Waves of passionate tenderness surged 
over him, and, with a quick movement, he 
sprang toward her. 

“My darling! my darling!” he cried. 
“ You love me? ” 

“ I have never ceased to love you, you 
are more than all the world to me.” The 
next instant she was sobbing on his breast, 
their fast-beating hearts close together, 
their lips meeting; and Fairfax Marmion 
and Margaret Lamadrid — thrilled through 
every pulse of their being by that mysteri- 
ous kiss of love — forgot everything in the 
wide world save each other. 

“ Together! Oh, my darling, together! ” 

“Together!” she whispered. “What a 
world of peace in that dear word? It is 
heaven to be with you. Fax.” 

“ Love is heaven on earth,” he said. 


194 


For the Honor 


And love is all on earth or in Paradise,” 
she breathed. 

She had given herself to him wholly in 
this hour — reserve, fear, the past were for- 
gotten. 

For a brief space they wandered in heav- 
en’s fair garden, with rapture and awe 
glowing from their eyes. Love had 
brought to them at last a sad happiness, and 
they were in the presence of inexorable 
Fate. 

He clasped her close in his strong arms, 
while she poured out the misery of those 
sad, uncertain years. Then she lay back on 
the pillow exhausted, but smiling. 

They ceased talking for a while, and the 
silence was fraught with love and tender- 
ness. Everything was clear between them. 
No, not everything. 

‘'Margaret! Margaret! My love!” he 
groaned, and sank beside the bed, bow- 
ing his head. “ Dear heart, why did I 
leave you, when you were made for 
me? ” 

She passed her hand slowly over his hair. 
“ Don’t, Fax! Don’t feel so! lam happy 


Of a Child. 


195 


now.” She paused a moment, before add- 
ing softly, Ever since I have known your 
love was mine, I have been happy.” She 
clasped his hand and held it against her 
heart. Too happy, Tm afraid. It will 
be easier for you too, dearest, now that you 
know you have my heart and love. Don’t 
you think so? ” 

‘‘ Yes, yes, Margaret, your love has given 
to me a peace that nothing else in heaven 
or earth could have given. I have suffered 
everything.” 

At that instant she moaned, as if in pain. 
He sprang to his feet: ‘‘Margaret! You 
are in pain! You are hurt, let me go for 
help! What is it, darling? You must tell 
me. 

“ No, no! ” she said quickly, but in a low 
voice, whose tones were growing physically 
weaker; “ give me a little brandy. I am 
only faint. I want to talk to you, Fax.” 
She smiled. “ Don’t leave me. The flask 
is on the dresser.” 

He opened the window near the bed. 
The gray dawn was breaking over the dis- 
tant hills: he could see the dim outline of 


196 


For the Honor 


the houses ; a cold chill was in the air. Not 
a soul was stirring. 

He then went to the dresser and picked 
up the flask of brandy. It must have been 
hastily used earlier in the evening; for the 
silver stopper was missing. There was 
something so oppressive, so unreal, about it 
all. He poured out some brandy into a 
little glass and carried it over to the bed; he 
raised her in his arms while she drank it. 

‘‘Are you hurt? What is it? Tell me, 
Margaret? How did it happen? ” he whis- 
pered with shortened breath, kissing her 
hair. “ I must go for help.” 

“ Don’t leave me, don’t leave me! ” She 
sank back on the bed with paling face; a 
shiver ran through her. 

“ Do not speak of it, if it is painful to 
you,” he said quickly. “ I will not leave 
you, darling.” 

In his heart was deep exultation for her 
love, but a great ineffaceable fear was also 
there. 

“ Not now, dear love,” she murmured, 
clasping her hands tightly. “ Let this hour 
be ours. I have prayed for this hour. 


Of a Child. 


197 


There isn’t very much happiness in the 
world, — only a little for each person, — and 
yet how desperately we cling to that little. 
I wonder,” she continued softly, “ if you 
will ever know how I have loved you, 
Fax?” 

‘‘ And I so unworthy.” 

Ah no ! you are not unworthy ; we have 
both made mistakes. I have tried so hard 
to live without you. Fax, but I have never 
truly lived. And you have suffered, too, 
I see it in your face.” She uttered a soft 
cry and her eyes filled with tears. 

He was silent, and she went on: 

I am not so good as you think. When 
I told you I did not care for you, it nearly 
broke my heart — and, Fax — oh, Fax — I 
Vv^ould have gone with you, but for Jim. 
He could not go. It cannot hurt him now. 
He was all that ever brought me back. Ah, 
yes! I was very weak; I loved you better 
than my own soul, and had it not been for 
him, I would have stayed with you till 
death separated us. I don’t want you to 
think I was stronger and better than you 
were; for God knows I was not. And I can 


198 


For the Honor 


never, no never, tell you the joy it gave me 
to hear you say that you loved me. Why, 
the earth seemed changed to me that night. 
But God will forgive us. The world might 
not, it is true, but he is merciful, and will 
understand how hard life has been for us. 
Yes, it has been very hard.” 

‘‘ Ah, Margaret! sometimes it has been so 
hard that I have lost my faith in all 
things.” 

Poor Fax! Poor Fax! It will be dif- 
ferent now.” 

For a while she was silent. 

‘'Oh, a child is a mighty power for good,” 
said she. “ They hold our hearts in their 
little hands; their weakness is our strength. 
And how often we are credited with 
strength that is not our own. But the 
heart knows its own failings.” 

“ My darling,” he cried. “ I did not 
think of the child! I had forgotten every- 
thing in the v/orld but you when I spoke! 
I would not have asked you to take him, 
nor yet to have left him. Your life seemed 
so terrible; little Jim told me so many hor- 
rible things. And I had always loved you. 


Of a Child. 


199 


and everything was so dark and hopeless. 
Believe me, I did not think of him.” 

I know it, Fax.” 

He stooped and kissed her. 

For Jim’s sake,” she said softly, “ what 
would I not do? You would love him 
fondly. Fax, if you knew him as I do. He 
is dear; yes, very dear. I love him so. Oh, 
he is so high-spirited and affectionate, so 
loyal, so truthful, and so brave.” — Ex- 
quisite tenderness was in her words. — 
And his admiration for me is a sacred 
thing.” 

Where is he, Margaret? ” he asked sud- 
denly. Again he was conscious of the un- 
realness of it all. Surely he would wake 
and find it a dream. 

Poor little fellow, he is fast asleep on 
the lounge, over by the door. When he 
found out I was hurt, he sobbed himself to 
sleep. Bertha made him a bed over there. 
Poor girl ! she has been so good to me. I 
am afraid she was badly frightened. Go 
over and see how lovely he looks when 
he’s asleep. Fax.” 

Marmion crossed over to the low couch 


200 


For the Honor 


and looked down on the sleeping child. 
Jie had on his blue silk robe and little slip- 
pers. There were a number of down pil- 
lows on the couch, and he was lying on his 
stomach, his face buried among them. 

‘‘ He’s lying on his face, Margaret. I’m 
afraid he will smother. Shall I turn him 
over?” 

Oh, he won’t smother! Children often 
sleep that way. But turn him over and kiss 
him.” 

Marmion fixed the pillows as tenderly as 
a woman, and lifted him in his arms, then 
laid him gently back again. 

Poor little man! he seems to have been 
having a hard time.” He smoothed his 
hair and kissed him. There were traces of 
tears on his round cheeks, and his eyelids 
were swollen. Marmion sat on the edge of 
the lounge, close to the sleeping child; he 
leaned back against the cushions, and 
looked at him thoughtfully. 

Suddenly he raised his eyes and a soft 
exclamation of delight escaped him. Just 
over where the child was sleeping hung an 
exquisite painting, in a massive frame. It 


Of a Child. 


201 


flashed on his vision like a dream-face of 
long ago, smiling down at him, as if a word 
would waken its sleeping beauty into joy- 
ous life. It was radiant with health and 
happiness — it was the face of Margaret 
Laurence. 

An instant after, that exquisite work of 
art served only to double his fears, to make 
his heart beat fiercely, and to turn his face 
as white as the one on the bed, whose 
beauty — so changed from that — affected 
him so unaccountably. 

After a pause Margaret said anxiously: 
‘‘ I’m afraid he doesn’t look quite like him- 
self. He had a terrible spell of crying. He 
rarely cries, but when he does, it nearly 
always makes him sick. Does he seem fev- 
erish? ” 

‘‘ No, he looks very well. As beautiful 
as a picture. Shall I throw something over 
him? ” 

She smiled. ** That’s just like you. Fax, 
you’re so thoughtful. I don’t think he 
needs anything, though; the rooms are 
warm. I can’t tell you ‘what a comfort he 
has been to me. We have only had each 


202 


For the Honor 


other, and the world is so large. You will 
love him, Fax?” she questioned slowly. 

‘‘I love him now; he is so very like 
you.” 

I wonder what he would think if he 
knew how weak, how very weak and human 
I am. Why, he thinks I can do no wrong.” 

'' You could not, Margaret. You might 
think that you would, but you could not. 
I know that full well. His confidence and 
trust are not misplaced. God never made 
a better woman than his mother.” He 
came back to her side. 

‘‘ Ah, Fax, how happy we might have 
been! ” 

Might have been! Her words were like 
a stone upon his heart, but he said softly, 

We’ll be happy, my darling. Nothing 
shall take you from me.” 

She smiled sadly and drew his head down 
close to her face. 

‘‘ Poor Fax! Poor Fax! ” 

“ Darling, you will soon be well and 
strong. Happiness is very near us.” 

‘‘ Fax, dear Fax, you will stay with me 
till the end?” 


Of a Child. 


203 


Till the end! A smiting terror swept 
over him. What if Margaret were to die! 

‘‘Forever!’’ he said under his breath. 
Long and passionately he kissed her. 
“ Mine to love and cherish with my life. 
Oh, my darling, this hour, with the assur- 
ance of your love, is worth all the years of 
my life. If death were the penalty I would 
take it gladly, rather than not to have lived 
this night.” 

Her face was flushed and her eyes had a 
peculiarly-bright look about them. 

He noticed the change with added anx- 
iety. “I am going for a doctor,” he said 
abruptly, in a decisive manner. “ I can- 
not ” 

“The doctor was here just before you 
came. He has gone to see some poor 
woman’s baby; it is dying.” Her voice 
was low, and she paused between every 
word. “ When he comes back he is going 
to bring another doctor with him. But 
they cannot help me.” 

“Don’t!” he cried passionately. “In 
God’s name, Margaret, what has hap- 
pened? ” 


204 


For the Honor 


Someone is coming now,” she whis- 
pered softly. ''Oh, Fax! I wanted to see 
you before they came back, and I could not 
bear to have you know how badly I was 
hurt. It happened last night. I was un- 
conscious for several hours. When I re- 
gained consciousness he had gone. I was 
alone with the servants. Then I sent for 
you. Indeed, my love, I do not suffer. I 
am in very little pain now. But the bullet 
is here and they are going to find it.” She 
pressed her hand to her breast. 

Just then someone rapped on the open 
door, and Bertha entered the room. She 
had been crying; there were dark circles 
under her eyes, and her face showed 
traces of the faithful watch she had kept 
that dark night " The doctor is here, he 
has someone with him,” she said in a low 
tone, as if she could not trust herself to 
speak. 

" Tell them to come up, Bertha,” Mar- 
garet answered. 

" And he has gone! Where? ” exclaimeJ 
Marmion. 

" I don’t know/’ she answered slowly. 


Of a Child. 


205 

‘‘The doctor thinks it was an accident.’’ 
She looked at him beseechingly. 

Horror was stamped upon his face; but 
he was unnaturally quiet. “ He cannot 
think so,” he said shortly. “ How can he, 
Margaret? ” 

“ I don’t know,” she said wearily. “ He 
seems willing to think so. 'Fax, dear 
Fax! ” she whispered with piercing tender- 
ness. 

He stood a moment struggling with con- 
flicting emotions. Then he bent and 
kissed her. Love had conquered; and she 
knew it. 

“ I am going to telegraph for my mother, 
she will be here to night,” he said. “ They 
must wait till she comes. I shall never 
leave you again, Margaret.” 

“ Never again,” she repeated. 

He passed out the room and stopped to 
speak to the doctors, who were talking in 
the hall, their heads close together. 

He asked them several questions. They 
told him an operation must be performed. 
It was not necessarily fatal, but was danger- 
ous in the extreme. He asked them to 


2o 6 For the Honor Of a Child. 

postpone it until his mother reached home, 
to which they consented. 

He turned from their curious eyes, and 
hurried down the stairway. The front door 
was open, and he left the house and passed 
out the gate, glad to feel the breath of 
morning upon his face. Perhaps he. could 
think now. He went rapidly down the 
street. 


FRAGMENT XI. 


THE BLOSSOM FALLS FROM THE 
STEM. 

The little revolver had accomplished its 
work, and Margaret's luminous face lay on 
the pillow, the light slowly fading from it, 
as the pale glory of the morning star dies in 
the coming dawn. 

Only one short week had elapsed since 
that last dreadful scene was enacted be- 
tween Ricardo Lamadrid and his wife. 
Only one short week since he had seen 
Margaret stretched at his feet, an ugly 
wound in her white breast. He had van- 
ished that night, and the darkness had swal- 
lowed him up as completely as if the earth 
had closed over him. 

That was a dreadful week. Fairfax Mar- 
mion had sent for his mother and she had 


207 


2o8 


For the Honor 


come; come from where the artificial jewel 
of success flashed as the real. He had told 
her briefly the history of the past few days, 
and when their eyes met she understood the 
story of his heart, reading his sorrow at a 
glance, and her tender heart overflowed 
with grief for him. And now her little 
figure vibrated between the great stone 
house and the Queen Anne cottage; the 
boy, too, came and went at his own sweet 
pleasure, and he was happier by far than he 
had been before in his short life; for he was 
not conscious of the stealthy shadow that 
was creeping toward his home. 

The doctors gave no hope. It was, at 
the best, but a matter of a few hours, and no 
earthly power could save her. At her own 
request, she was carried from her stately 
private apartments, where they had borne 
her that awful night, to the child’s little 
room, where she now lay, on his white bed, 
pale and motionless. 

Marmion was alone with Margaret. He 
stood beside the bed, and gazed heart- 
brokenly at her. Her eyes were closed, 
and apparently she was sleeping — sleep- 


Of a Child 


209 


ing as peacefully as a child. The suf- 
fering was all on his face. She opened her 
eyes and smiled up at him. ‘‘ Fax/’ she 
said softly and fondly. 

“You are in pain!” he said quickly, bend- 
ing over her. 

“ No, not in pain, dear Fax, but oh, so 
tired.” 

“ Where is Jim?” she asked after a pause. 

“ Mother has taken him out in the yard, 
to get a breath of fresh air. It is difficult 
to keep him away from you for long at a 
time.” 

“How kind your mother is to him!” 
She smiled gratefully. 

The child’s red cap lay on the bed beside 
her, where he had left it a short time before. 
She picked it up and pressed it to her lips. 
“ Dear little cap, — dear little boy, — my own 
sweetheart.” Then she fell into silence, 
gazing at Marmion wistfully. 

After a while she broke the stillness: 
“ Fax, I have something to say to you be- 
fore I go. It will not be long, dear heart,” 
she whispered. “ Something tells me that.” 

His face was racked with emotion. “ No, 


210 


For the Honor 


no, my dearest one! You are better, it can- 
not be! God will not separate us now!*’ 
His voice failed him. 

Poor boy, poor boy ! It is going to be 
so hard, for you. It is of Jim I wish to 
speak, my poor little sweetheart. You will 
care for him. Fax. I am afraid he will miss 
me sadly.” 

No, no, Margaret! I cannot live with- 
out you. I will not live without you. Let 
me stand face to face with Ricardo Lama- 
drid and then let me die.” He threw him- 
self beside the bed and encircled her with 
his arms. She crept close to him, and thJy 
were silent for some time. He was striving 
vainly to gain his self-control. 

“ Margaret, forgive me. I have given 
you pain! I will be calm! ” 

“ Oh, my love, it will not be so lonely if 
you have little Jim. You must take him 
for your very own, and he will be a consola- 
tion, a sweet comfort to you, as he has ever 
been to me. He will help you so much. 
Promise me you will live for him.” 

He drew a chair beside the bed and sat 
down. 


Of a Child. 


2II 


Is it asking too much, dear? Will he 
be a burden to you? ’’ 

“ A burden ! Oh, Margaret, your child 
a burden ! ” 

She smiled. Then for my sake you will 
love and cherish him. You will be father 
and mother to him, and your life will be 
full. Teach him to be good and brave and 
true. And when he is older, tell him our 
sad little story; and he will love you; oh, so 
dearly! ’’ 

‘‘ I am not worthy, my darling, of this 
sacred trust.’’ 

‘‘ I only ask for him, my love, that he be 
like you in all things. God grant it may be 
so! This house, which is in my name, and 
my diamonds, will be enough for him. I 
leave everything to your judgment.” She 
paused and laid her white hand upon his. 

And you will not let him forget me, 
Fax. The thought of being forgotten 
is the hardest of all; it is death’s cruelest 
sting.” 

He met her eyes, but he could not an- 
swer. 

Suddenly her voice sank to an appealing 


212 


For the Honor 


whisper. And if his father should try to 
gain possession of him you will stand be- 
tween them! Never, oh never, let him 
have the child! ’’ Her face grew paler yet 
at the fearful thought. 

‘‘ I swear that he shall not touch the child 
while Tm alive.” 

I can ask no more.” She breathed 
contentedly. ‘‘ But he will not come 
back,” she said, “ when I am gone ; fear will 
keep him away — he dare not come hack. 
If by any chance, though, he should get 
desperate and return — for he is very proud 
of him, yes, very proud of little Jim — I have 
written the particulars down — you will find 
them in my desk; this, together with Ber- 
tha's word, will be sufficient to ” 

“ Hang him!” 

‘‘ His father hanged! No, no, not that! 
I have made this statement to be used as a 
last resort; there is no bitterness in my 
heart. But he cannot have my little sweet- 
heart.” Her eyes filled with tears. 

Oh, Margaret, my beloved! I will watch 
the child unceasingly. I will love and 
guard him with my life, and I will try to 


Of a Child. 213 

live as you would have me; let your heart 
rest on that.” 

‘‘ It does,” she said softly; I have im- 
plicit faith in you.” 

He clasped her hands and held them to 
his face. He had fought against the bitter 
truth for hours, but in that moment it forced 
itself upon him, and he felt that the reali- 
ties were melting from her and that she was 
slipping into the shadowy beyond. A de- 
spairing sense of his utter weakness over- 
whelmed him. 

At length she began talking of the past, 
— the long ago, — when they were boy and 
girl; so that, for a short time, the vivid 
present, with its awful possibilities, seemed 
far away. 

Do you remember. Fax, the white 
doves you gave me when I was a little bit 
of a girl? You weren’t a very big boy, 
either; and yet you seemed very old to me 
then. I remember you built them a house 
with a tiny door in it and nailed it up on 
father’s barn. I was so fond of the little 
things, and loved to feed them the livelong 
day. They were so tame I could feed them 


214 


For the Honor 


from my hand. I have forgotten whether 
I had them a week or a year, or what be- 
came of them in the end, but those white 
doves with their soft eyes and mournful 
calls to each other, I remember distinctly.’’ 
She paused. ‘‘ It is odd,” she continued, 
how some things make an indelible im- 
pression upon children; how some trivial 
occurrence will often stand out like a mile- 
post, and last a lifetime. Thousands of 
other things must have happened to me at 
that time, yet I have forgotten every one of 
them. But I remember the doves as if it 
were yesterday.” 

“ My darling. I’m afraid you ought not 
to talk.” 

'' It cannot hurt me. Fax; I feel stronger 
than I’ve felt for days. It does me good 
to talk to you.” 

Hope sprang to his face as he softly 
touched her hair. 

'' Oh, I’ve been thinking of so many 
things the last few days. Do you remem- 
ber, Fax, how happy, how more than happy, 
we were when I lived in the little house, 
and you had just come home from college? 


Of a Child, 


215 


Do you remember how, every Sunday after- 
noon, we’d go to Glenwood Grove, and how 
you used to read aloud? Thackeray and 
Shakspere for you, Dickens and Longfellow 
for me. You have a beautiful voice. Fax. 
Do you remember what good times we had 
together? ” Her changing face was like 
the sun in its brightness. 

‘‘ I remember it all. And oh, your music, 
Margaret!” he answered eagerly with a 
smile. He had forgotten the morrow! 

No one ever understood it, or cared for 
it, as you did,” she said half dreamily. ‘‘ I 
gave it up long ago. But it has never 
given me up, never. Ah yes ! music has al- 
ways been to me a sublime sense of pleas- 
ure. At times,” she said slowly, as if 
weighing her words, “ I’ve thought, per- 
haps real music might be the soul of God. 
And do you know, dear Fax, I’ve never 
heard an exquisite melody since we parted 
without wishing you could share it with 
me. 

“ I’ve felt that way about so many 
things,” he replied. “ You couldn’t help 
thinking of me, Margaret; for you have 


2i6 


For the Honor 


been in my thoughts always — day and 
night/' He rose and sat on the bed and put 
his arms round her; he drew her head 
close to his breast, and kissed her. 

“Oh yes, it is true!" she said. “I've 
felt your love around me all my life. Ah, I 
felt it in my heart, but I did not under- 
stand." She sighed; her voice was grow- 
ing weaker. “ And sometimes, when you 
were so many miles away, I could almost 
feel your presence." 

His face was as white as death. She 
closed her eyes in silence and lay in his 
arms, as if sleeping. In that hush, the 
watch on the stand near the bed could be 
heard distinctly crooning time's sombre 
requiem. Gloom was deepening in the 
little room. 

“ And now my life is finished, and it 
seems like a dream. ‘ Never, forever — 
forever never — never here, forever there.’ ” 
Her voice was scarcely audible as she 
breathed the sad words. 

“ Margaret! dearest! dearest! my heart is 
breaking! " 

“ Forever there, dear love. Ah, I am so 


Of a Child. 


217 


happy with you ! ’’ She crept closer to him, 
holding him fast, and a shudder passed 
through her. 

‘‘ Jim — bring him,’’ she said faintly, I — 
am — going.” 

His eyes darkened with dread as a 
change swept over her face. He walked 
blindly to the door and passed into the hall. 
Mrs. Marmion and the child were half-way 
up the staircase. 

'' Mother! ” he cried sharply, “ bring Jim; 
Margaret want’s him.” 

A low cry fell from Mrs. Marmion’s lips, 
she thrilled with terror at the sound of his 
voice, and her heart told her as well as the 
expression of his face that the apprehended 
time was near. She grasped the boy’s hand 
and hastened forward. 

As they entered the room, Margaret was 
sitting up in bed, gazing toward the door, 
the tender look of the unforgotten doves in 
her eyes. She stretched out her arms to 
the child, and he flew into them. 

‘‘ I brought you some flowers, mother 
dear,” he said, holding a bunch of sweet- 
scented roses toward her. '' I got ’em in 


2i8 


For the Honor 


Mrs. Marmion’s house-garden. Wasn’t she 
kind to let me have ’em?” 

Mrs. Marmion took the flowers from his 
hand and put them upon the table by the 
bed, her tears falling among their soft 
petals. 

“ One,” Margaret sighed, smiling fondly 
at the child. 

Mrs. Marmion selected a rare blossom 
from the table and gave it to the boy. He 
held it laughingly up to Margaret’s face, 
then laid it in her snowy hand. 

Marmion raised the child to the bed, and 
the little fellow clasped his arms round his 
mother’s neck. 

‘‘ Sweetheart — little sweetheart — God 
bless and protect you,” she said, very 
faintly. Be good to Fax — my little one 

— and he will love ” Her sweet voice 

died away into silence, and she sank from 
Marmion’s arms back on the bed. 

The child pressed- closer to her and laid 
his warm, flushed cheek against the white 
one on the pillow. He put his red, laugh- 
ing lips ‘‘Mother! mother 

jjeft ^ haBS&^ftly. “ Open your eyes.” 


Of a Child. 


219 


His eyes opened wide with fear, and his 
small body trembled from head to foot. 

Mother, mother, I am here! ’’ he sobbed 
wildly. 

Mrs. Marmion lifted him from the bed. 

‘‘ Oh! oh! I cannot make her hear! ’’ he 
repeated over and over between his sobs. 

Mrs. Marmion drew the child from the 
bed, crying softly to herself as she tried to 
quiet him. 

Marmion bent over the still figure and 
placed his ear against her heart. Mar- 
garet! Margaret! And I must live!’' he 
whispered in agony. He straightened 
himself, Lis lips tightly compressed, and 
looked silently down on the quiet face, 
framed in the shining hair. Like a fair 
white lily it lay, upturned toward heaven, in 
peace and purity. Her hand clasped the 
flower of love, whose fragrant leaves were 
fading on her breast in pathetic sadness. 
It was over! 

He turned his head and closed his eyes. 
His heart was weeping at the grave of its 
happiness. 


-e ■ i-”™™™ 

A -1X4^’ ^ • ' i S 

i ' ■ Mft. . . * . / 



^;y 


yt+ 


* %*-' T'V- ' 

I "# : -.'■ 

ssstePL 

■' mm 

w i^;- 



Df ^ iVA i . , 




s 


1' A' !, ^ mm< 

■ift ' ' 

,•.• Mkn 

iiiW’-.., •>«',. f',,,'' .a 

i™.»r.-V' .'i .ifl 



I * I 


I ‘. '. V' 



■ t'PtB 


» . 4 


-Tf 


r:kr 


■{p-y r. , ■ •, . 

> 


r 


, ■ *' 




'J’ 


\ I 


J. . ' 



. , ', ' v ■ ;/• }'-)X 


v-:'.', '. '>.* v ’^UjUr 

^fjV.VL' "/ .’ ■' *'.*?■ If"* 

QiA\ i « • i\,*\ V' .aTauSi 




~ \<yW 


V'^-p 


vriC^wj; : v '.w» 

y)r .t ;‘.?^i».ii A'^v ;•■' ^ 

MW*-^V ■' -A.'^ ■ ' ■'•, V 


. jV' fj < y v ■'■•;■. ■ - 

■ ; ' 

vv 

■ ■ ■ ‘' 

vIP W VV.A . A‘«*l 1< ' ’ V 







• ' 


' t 


I 


t 


f 


■ I 






o V 



^ 0 




-,.o’ 0- ‘ ^ "'c 

I' O s**> 

V./ 



iP -T^ 

o 0 ^ 

^ *"“'>’ A 0 ■ ,J> 

^ v” » ' c\ ^0^ . « • o^ ’ 





% * I 'Z' ^ V » ' ' * ' 

^ »>Wa'- »‘ 

v^. «v/w\\Ns“ 

V' '^v* , 0 ^ '^^*'°**'" ^ 


A 


A'^ -S' 





A' 


^ rv^ 


O' 



- ' '^o^ 


^ .0 



y • o 


9 

^ O '^<». 

W ^'t' “ 

W/M^' 

'^ '« • * ^ A ^ 

'‘'jr?^-' c° 

* .Ot- > 

»<#*.» 

I#*- ♦^^.’ .■«-‘^ o 







0 



VJ 


aa IhJSF ^ 

. 'i*„ * ° " ° f° 




° V'^'^ : 

. -'=>'f'« r. 


V’ C\ ,0 , 



^ 0^ 

o *' /» ^ r\ ''T *■ • ^ 

^ 0.0 ,0 ^ , -, 2 , V ' 

' • • % 0^ ^ ^ * o. v^ s ^ • 

* ^ fA^^/Vi A V «• 



0 » * 


A 


<y ^ 



o 

“ C,^ 

y, V 

.0^ O -'O 

< V 0^ ^O 




* ^ 

. °^ ■*»-'»’ ^0' V. 

^ <0 V" 

% <»■ •m{£’. u if- •■ 

r'««;i^‘'^ -fWi'. W 

UMAJIV BINOINa 



> • A 






FLA. k', 

32084 ^ • 4 0 * 

<V' V<V •« 

r o 




rO- 


• I 1 


0.1 


o. 



n u O 



